by Z. Franquiz
Community High School
in the air-conditioned grocery store where
everything is clean my
sister and i grin badly into the camera,
pushing our heads back at
angles that make us look turtlish.
a consistent noise which says that you can look bad
and so you should. or just,
here. i will do this and we’ll laugh.
here is the one pattern that always comes.
once all the
agitation in my body
aimed itself only at the orange blossom of the far past
the distant places which _
(if i have forgotten them how will i remember such a long life?)
perhaps i should move somewhere cold_
and in the style of the bowhead whale, following her directions, become round with fat
hide myself under ice and only speak in clicking
live forever and cease to remember, remember that memories aren’t even what you need. even when they feel urgent.
directly beneath the orbital bone there is a soft green box
look back and you will see a mind built on sticking threads.
the spider springs wildly at any prey and catches only some to bring back into the thalamul home, skittering
compulse, compulse, compulse out in braille with his teeth
the comb jelly propels himself through a single hole.
the mind in the body (not so in control as the body in the mind) and that, umai
sweet sailor, the body in the mind remembers
in terms of wanting. dopamine. eyes just for the details and the rest of the body says yes no maybe yes no yes no as if it
fully comprehends the consequences of any choice!
no such thing as informed when you cant see the
world unfold seething.
no such thing as memory when the body in the mind says no, no, look here
long ago we scorned our nerves on this
Z. Franquiz lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan with two cats. She is a high school senior.