Write it down then ball up the piece of paper, push it into your
mouth. Acknowledge that it feels better in there than it did in
front of your eyes. Take your time, chew slowly, savor. Think of
magpies, italicize the word in your head. Magpies. Think of both the
bird and the image of pie that your mind wants to draw. Swallow. If
that doesn't work, go outside, sit Indian style, and draw pictures
in the ground of what you wrote down. Cup the dirt into your mouth,
thinking of your hands as ladles, the earth as necessity. Ladle: a
vessel for transporting liquid; to transfer from one receptacle to
another. If, when trying to swallow, you cough and have to spit back
up some of the dirt, think of the crumbs of earth as small birds
taking flight, transferring from one vessel to the next. Think of it
like giving birth to an avian beginning.
Gut yourself. Slice first from wrist to elbow fold -- slow and smooth, the sharper the blade the better. Remember the filet knife you gave your dad for Father's Day when you were ten. Remember opening day every year, gutting the fish right there in the boat, letting the insides spill out into the water. Hook in your finger and scoop like that. Invert, turn yourself inside out like a duvet, like a shirt or sock out of the dryer. Like you'd learned in youth group, bored from the sermon, to do with a Styrofoam cup: slow and careful, lest it crack and break. Spill out onto the table. A dissection. Spread out your arms, present.
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