preparations

What I need to do, before I
grasp my mother’s hand and fly away is
synthesise concepts into
neat little teams; snatch theories out of their
lofty nests and spirit them away
into slavery. I must take a scrubbing brush to
my world and remember
how to speak French and ascertain exactly
which 20 kilograms of my life
I cannot live without
and I need to stop feeling so
Goddamn afraid

What I would like to do is
set fire to my furniture and whisper
sweet nothings to the flames. I would like
to fill a suitcase with all the things I hope
to tag and scan and never
see returned from the airport’s bowels and I would like to
fit back into my
skinniest jeans

What I will do is give in to the
feeling that nibbles at my sides with
puppy teeth, that bats a playful paw against
the back of my mind, softly at first and then
with echoing insistence to say
you haven’t written any words just for
the sheer joy of it
in weeks

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