Catie Rosemurgy

Neighbor: Miss Peach Belongs


back in her mother’s arms, not sprawled on the ground beside a picnic table.
Can someone please at least bring me a drink of water? What I’m looking for
is a state of such abundant presence it will be experienced as blankness.
Her swollen head is all that’s left. 50, 60 lbs. easy. Can someone please bring me
the undiminished data of a life, a pulsing wall? My shoulder finally gives out
after an hour of propping her up to talk and eat. I want to be surrounded
and I used to think it didn’t matter by what. I collected glass for awhile, thought a lot about how the future supercharges the present. Nothing sadder
than a metaphor, though people do soak into objects. She’s addressing the issue
of how one feels muscular when rowing a boat which illuminates the real issue
of not having hands. Of course someone else has dislocated her elbow and we have another animal story on the tennis court. Your own and other people’s pain
can heighten detail but too much and the day is awash of hormones, by which I mean
the public park does not return to its solid form once it’s been converted to a gas.
We’re way past judging one another for having no real innate behaviors. We’re not sure what she could be choking on. We’re willing to watch it happen—involuntary movement is like a snake—but we’re not willing to let it have happened. We attach
like crystals which converts the air into sheets of ice. This is glass.
This is a truly new world that cannot be walked on. Will there be a form
of waking here? Instead of time we have her skin.