Unravel what has happened: death, four lost limbs that belong to another country, hunger, a mother that sips pills as breakfast, fear, that time a staircase lost its angles and tumbled away, silence, that memory that exists like a movie trailer with gaps and voiceover and who really knows what is really real anymore.
Try to recall a time where mouth migrated far away from face. Some call this a smile. Or laughter’s gesture. Was there flirt involved or a tiny ceramic mug of Malbec or perhaps just a mountain that screamed its language from the ghosts in its soil. Was the sky green or orange and what happened when you touched your knuckles; did your fingers bow toward your palms and pray.
Those bite marks arrived once you allowed another human to hunger against you. And hunger gathers from the admittance of space. And space is a result of intensive organization. And organization is just another word for the silence of pattern. And patterns can refer to the color stained against the web of hand or the language you meditate into at night to gather up the momentum of what it is to be.
Aimee Herman 