Electrical currents are the blueprints for my thoughts, memories.
I wonder if my mind—my body’s sky—lights up with its own lightning and if it vibrates with the thunder of recollection. Or do some memories stay silent too long?
I want to scream into the hearing aid nestled in his ear,
Where is your fist?
Thick-throated men in black coats scurry to the windows of the suite,
scour the landscape with slitted eyes, estimate the arc of bullets.
They move me from one chair to another to another until I am sitting
so close his breath sparks moisture on my skin...
Like most mornings during the past six years, you awake from a lovely, deep sleep suffused with the thoughts that you would molest your own children, kill strangers, harm any life that came across your path.