1: Stretch your limbs.
They are long and white with the sheen of a pearl,
skin wrapped tight around bones in tones
that shift as the sun glows through your meat.
2: Open your mind.
Find that it spreads like roots.
Drink the rain of thoughts from those below
and above. You don’t know who could be above.
You look up, and all you see is space.
Closer than you remember.
3: Closer than you remember?
Grasp fondly at the holes in your memory.
They remind you that there is
something besides holes.
You remember a lightness in an organ
you used to have, and your lips
clutching whispers. Assurances that everything
would be okay. You would be fine.
4: Cry.
Brush the trembling tips of your too-long fingers
to the hot flush on your cheeks.
Realize you don’t have a face.
Your hands come away dry.