The Unmaking

The soil was damp and smelled of wet rot, of life straining to remake and laboring to undo.

Somewhere else, a car door slammed, a woman fed a fire, a coyote gave chase, and a stoplight turned red.

The earth was dank and heady, filling my nostrils with its pregnant fragrance. The land beneath me swooned with its burden, with the earth’s terrible weight.

And somewhere else, a pot boiled over, a bird returned to nest, a child tripped on a curb, and a tv turned on.

A single breath and all was undone, none was known and there was no place else. A whisper of potential, fragile, hungry and shiny new.

Somewhere else, a plane taxied.

The trees shielded us from above, from the prying eyes of mirthless gods. The earth hummed beneath our feet, knowing, wise.

I knew I was supposed to know you.

In this space, I am broken down into my tiniest parts; cells, vessels, atoms. The pieces don’t make sense but I struggle to care. I strain to remember anything at all.

Somewhere else, a baby cries.

A single finger traces along my cheek and I am unmade from the inside.

And strangest of all, somewhere else, you close your eyes.