peeking my head out from layers of dirt, seeing light for the first time, or at least since my last life, my last birth and that whole again and again. I timidly approach the cracked-open door, a faint memory of splinters and coughing. I’ve dreamt of this place, so bright and fragrant, 4 red-faced birds playing in flight, spiraling mid-air, their song not a song but a siren. Milo is sprawled out on the lawn, letting things like gravity and the heat of the mid-day sun do their bidding. How many times have I woken up here, seeing the world as a new place, the hornet’s nest, the rock garden, the taste of my own mouth? I’ve heard there are some jellyfish that live forever, always floating and dreaming and straddling onto an old old life. When does one begin to know themself? To recognize the morning sigh, a bitter soup? Every time I get to knowing I’m struck with thorns and electricity, scraped up and fazed, struggling to remember how to remember. Every year the radishes are the first to sprout, rushing to the surface to welcome the spring. Do they remember those other years, the worms, the wet dirt? Or are they like me, confused and overwhelmed by the brightness of this world, yearning to touch every sound and taste every smell, because we’re here and we’re ready but just not sure for what.
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