Prunes- That is what my life is like-

(somewhere in her subconscious: a stirring)

dark and messy and wrinkly- gooey, nauseating sweetness.

(she remembers vague images she forced out of her mind, but carried with her anyway)

And lots of teeny, tiny seeds- I don’t much care for them.

(a tarantula is caught in a pickle jar on the highway-)

They remind me of things once juicy and full and alive-

(because it is Oklahoma and the combines are harvesting the spider’s home so it scurries away from its life into a glass prison)
that are rotten now.

(she recalls the soap opera she sneaks behind the couch to watch-because it’s
forbidden to her- and the call comes from home that her dog is dead- and
the mound of fresh-dug dirt in the backyard, by her dad’s grey boat- she
never said goodbye)

Or maybe an ice-cube- maybe that’s what would be a more accurate depiction-

(her mother yells at her, and her dad stabs his harsh disappointment into her
through the plastic telephone)

Frozen in its neat, little compartment in a colorful tray, waiting

(her legs prickle in the cold blast from the air conditioning in the small Sunday School room-)

till it’s forced out of its perfect cold niche so it can melt- and be nothing.

(she remembers swinging- she loved to swing- praying breathless to fly or fall-
always scared to jump- she loves the wind in her face)

I like ice, though- on a hot day in July-

(arms wrap tightly around and she knows love, and the stars never appear as night
falls silently)

by the pool, in the heat-

(the pool- she was always so self-conscious- she shuffles her feet before plunging
off the creaky diving board into the deep end that wasn’t deep enough- last
happy thought)
I don’t much like summer, either-

(empty, idle days she sits alone with the containing walls of her room and the
solitary window she lets the light from the other world come in through)

Itchy insect incisions- sweaty sticky sunburn- Maybe it’s like a fire:

(the Pacific wind blows a cinder, falls on her jacket, melts the polyurethane, sears
her thigh- she doesn’t want to be an inconvenience, so she picks it off and
sits quietly gnawing a hole in her cheek)

a darkly burning mass of flames; vibrant tongues that lick the sky and digest themselves-

(the loneliness when she passes those woods, her woods, overgrown with weeds
and civilization’s garbage- thoughts of another night- a surreal scene she
holds on to, hazy through red-rimmed eyes- the perfect place always unreachable)

until they become lifeless ashes.

(rough hands grasp her by the waist, push her down, pull her apart- she screams
into silence, chokes on her will- slips into confusion)

Ashes. Yes-that’s what-who- I am. Not a prune or ice or fire- beyond life, beyond feeling.

(she beats at the carpet with clenched fists- frustration- suicide’s not the answer,
she knows- the thudding of her heart as she desperately pleads with it to
cease of its own accord)

But I do still- Oh god how I feel-

(she hears the faint fairytale chimes of a distant music box, with its single, lonely
ballerina, forever dancing to the tune of her own sadness)

the crushing, squashing sensation of repressed tears-

(she pulls the door to the stall shut-stands-tries to compose herself- not crying, not
crying, but the lump of despair somewhere in her middle keeps pushing
itself into her throat and she gags)

and memories- that sometimes break the dam and drown. But then the waters recede-

(she’s up at night, writing, vocalizing her very soul through the ink blots on the
paper- realizes the glassy-eyed reflection in her dresser mirror is still the
same as it was before, so she lays her weary head down and tries to sleep-
perchance to dream)

and I’m still me-

(somewhere in her subconscious- a stirring…