If my head were to
Open down the middle
From the pressure implied by
Lover and loved and the books I haven’t finished,
If I were to open and spill
I wonder
What kinds of things undigested,
undiminished,
Would scatter and tumble out:
the jokes i forgot to tell you tangled
in my memories of the red sea,
softened stems of seaweed
holding my punchlines for me.
Following probably
thousands of miles of road,
miles of empty black or icy snow
through which I drove.
In my eviscerating display would one find
skills
propping me up like bones,
or just the cancer
the fries left behind?
maybe in the goo there is just me
all alone,
with my head in two pieces
to carry all the way home.
Garbanzo Bae 