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Perhaps after all is said and done it won’t happen like that at all, and instead my body will be an ocean, and all my parts – my liver, my tongue and heart, will drown among the flotsam and jetsam. Perhaps on the bus I take to work some warm dry morning I’ll start to leak from my pores. Turn blue. And breathe three times before my descent. Who knows, perhaps then I will taste bile and think it to be seaweed, and my intestines will split and scatter the morsels of me on the ocean floor to be eaten by whatever lurks there. Perhaps my hair will all fall out and I’ll roam the world like a chemo patient, shriveled up enough to play the part while my body, ocean still, emits its spume and waits for the next visitor. |
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Perhaps there will be no next visitor. Perhaps it won’t happen like that at all, and instead entire gospel choirs will line my bedroom wall, and servants will feed me only seedless grapes, since seeds are what caused this in the first place. And perhaps my arms will reach wide enough to embrace the choir in my room, wide enough to embrace entire solar systems. Wide enough. Perhaps my legs will grow even longer, and my feet will turn to stone and I will be firmly rooted like a crag somewhere between Portugal and Scotland. Perhaps my hands will fall silent, as if wading through water, or waiting to be read, and the half-moons in my fingernails will instead disappear and not remind me of the time I have left. |
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