Dearself,

Some weeks. Vanilla-skied days. Orange nights. Bedstands overflowing.
Sister in, sister out, both of us trying not to think and not to panic.

Blue tagged at last,
I: specimen in the wild, form foldered. Folded. Parceled out: To Transportation. Therapy. Meals. Legalities.

Folder leaves, folded sleeves, the empty grieves;
We all dream of being filled.

A thousand angles I can no longer draw, my name even now an impossibility.

Rai-Li forges for me on the less important ones, and we pretend I have some idea of how to take care of her, how to attend guardianship hearings, and win bread. Pay utilities. Do taxes.

Death by family reunion.
Everyone we know is gone.

We might as well be strangers.

Dearself,

You are not the man you were yesterday.

Maybe you’re three-quarters of him?
Seven-eighths?

Refrain from pointing this out to future nurses.
It upsets them.

Dearself,

Sight does not grant belief.

I feel it still, with fingers, calluses, hangnails, dirt in the cuticles, zinc-clouds in pale violet thumbnail.
In how many other ways would it be just so much easier to live if we could stop feeling?

My missing glove no longer matters,
Half-price at a gypsy’s shop for readings,
Pirates—This is optimism.

This is the way you let everyone else believe things will be alright:
Humor.
I still owe them that.

Charge me an arm and call us even.
I owe nothing.
Give me two hands again.