The Brooklyn Rail

Here’s the Thing:

things fall apart.

I am sort of sleeping then
I am on fire. Undone. Burned.
Stripped of skin I feel so
raw these days. Flattened.
Full of doubt. Numb.

Rats thrive in sewers so
maybe I’m thriving. It may seem
simple enough but my dreams don’t
say so. This I think I know: no one
notices me. Lost. Alone. Blind
as a sewer rat. Shook. Underdone.
Too-full rat still hungry. Rich rat swimming
sewage. Breadline rat. Baker rat. Transformed. Stuck
in a well. Thriving. Burned intro brick
road. Milepost. Sign.

Triumphant. I scream but
words burn like skyfire. Clammy.
Street rat. Fell in a hole. Stuck
in a well. I rattle the cages of our
children. Everywhere else
is empty.

I am not saying I’m a prophet but
I know the meaning of a moment
like ours. Burning. I’m almost sure
I’m here. Transformed. Torn apart.
Average. Boring. Humdrum. Numb.
No sound stays innocent. I am

fluent in fire. Fluent in indigo
miseries. I am fluent in the absence of
heat. A rat on the street. Sudden and melt.
I am fluent in how time presses
a body. Here’s the thing I’m not
supposed to say: I saw others skulk
the dark like me. Simple enough.
I skulk away a little more each day.
Maybe there’s more intelligent life
but I’m not it. How will we survive this
having a body? Trying to be
intelligent life. Fireball struck and stuck.
I study the crows who know this—having
a body to fly.

Almost a dream. A sign
you’re not supposed to notice. A path.
Who can I be? Blame the apocalypse.
Its melt. Its bends. It never ends.

Thing is: things fall apart. Everyday

the end of the world is now again. Normal.
I burn and remember having a body. How
it feels. Cold. If I hold no beauty in this slapdash
world, then tuck me away from the heat of the day.

Alone. I burn. Blame the humdrum
numbness of the end of the world. Listen for
the wind. Intelligent life: where is it? No sound
an innocent means. Route. Way. I am

not saying I’m a prophet but I always travel
slightly singed. Pressed by time. Six feet back
I find the me who’s tall as a gum tree, the me
with copper hair. Causeway me. Opening.

Expanse.
Eyes open, heart full of doubt.
I strike my fireballs and burn. Sort of
dreaming. Now volcano. Now oil-slicked
river. Stripped of skin. Fluent
in the press of time. Body clammed. Voice
raw and syrup stripped. Eyes open. Sewer rat.
Thriving. No sound stays innocent.
Rats.

Footpath. Corridor. Clearing and
yes the bushes burn like skyfire. And
I decide to survive. Claim every sunrise.
I am dark as earth. Now I am me with the
bright yellow hair. Me with a normal
girth—wait—

Normal? Do I know that word? Did I ever? Is it
normal to hang from a tree? Is normal an ability
to breathe? Are normal these panic attacks?
Does normal stand whole bodies back? Tucked
away from the heat of the day, I listen for how to survive
this body. Face twisted. Slightly singed. Fueled
by my own crisped flames. Condemned.

I know the meaning of a moment but here’s the thing:
Am I intelligent life? Pffft. How could I tell? The crows know.
I know I’m not road. I’m doorway. And when things fall apart
again I’ll be here—my rectangular shade of blue. I’m not
supposed to talk about transformation though. Not the me
with the hollow cheeks. The me with the blood-red stride.
Fluent in the need to dance.

Me with moles in fourteen places. Here.
Having a body. Me with three nose rings. Normal.
I grasp for a branch. Normal. I thrive. Gutter rat. Me
with the war wounds. The burning quiet of stars. The
crows I know. Who else can I be?