Naomi Goodheart
you ask how the walk home was
and i think but don’t write:
terrible. it was simply awful and i can feel
my thoughts in my ears. i have to see
the cat before i go to sleep. i have to stare
at the cars to understand how fast they go.
i understand that the body must break
but does it have to be into so many pieces?
i’m afraid to google how orange juice
with extra pulp comes into existence
because i’m afraid it isn’t
how we imagine it. the dream:
all the pulp strained out, then scooped
back in degrees—you call it pulp fiction
and i don’t laugh because i’m astonished.
i stop myself from writing your words down,
thinking i’ll remember them later—
it’s later and i can’t remember them,
why didn’t i write them down?
always write everything down. the body is
pulp. i’m strained, i return
to myself in degrees.