My sister reminds me on holiday I’d take roadkill pictures, that’d end up blurry, a self-censor, because the after’s not something you can capture. Not explainable, adequate or photogenic.
Then, death was a make-believe marvel that Bible stories disproved or made points of, and it was an other person place which the pocket of my stomach was yet to inhabit. Similarly, I’d take fairground rides, awe-full, off-peak to queue skip, without bolts and seat-fittings invading eyespace. And if dad said it was okay it was okay.
And my bravery is a moment push now, a fluttery seat belt turbulence, in which I sometime regret analysing Genesis, John, Jude, with a graduate skepticism, until close-read passages were unworkable poems evidenced as undo, don’t do, did.
There’s solace in the nothing. But where does the skin go?
You’d dreamed of a two-named girl, or maybe even three, and over-looking this lacking was difficult as ignoring cross-eyes, hairlines, orthopedic shoes but, at least, those you could understand.
I text that, “It’s not a choice exactly,” and you say you’re confused but you say you’re confused mid-point any argument I swear just to rile and I reply, “One name,” and that sets then starts you.
“You’re not a fucking mononymous celebrity. Don’t sell records on it. Never wrote a thing that warranted the marketing possibilities of it. Your name’s too common and your face, not photographable, and your weight, probably an issue.”
I thought it’d work because so many men are intent on their name evapourating yours. Someone once broke up with me because I said I’d never take theirs, and that was unromantic, apparently. But I’m the most hopeful of everyone, except Mary Magdalene.