Miraculous Recovery

Here’s one you won’t have to analyze too hard:

I feel nothing.

Illness macht meaning;

words that start with “d” or end with “order” tie my caterpillar corpse to a tree trunk and erase the pain of searching for green leaves to eat to fuel my grand entrance into the fluttering air on numbered wings.

Was that trying too hard?

I used to lie on a blank mattress staring at a blank ceiling and I would feel the soldier ants swarm over my squished flesh, sucking my blood like nectar spiked with sugar, leaving darkness to color the blankness on my ceiling.

Now I lie on a blank mattress and dream of growing down and in, rather than spreading my wings; I dream of eating

green leaves until I am as small as a typical raindrop

and tepid, so I no longer have to watch the grown-ups fluttering about with mating apparatuses unsheathed.

Now I sleep inside, and all is well. My wings are from Walgreens, white as healthy moths to flame

and they are numbered.


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