my face is turned in toward my brain that is suspended in fluid and tethered by my spine and shaped like a pomegranate. as i stare at this gray matter it bumps up against my nose and brushes my lips and here i think i will find the answers. (i find my lobes are discriminatory–here is the memory of your hands over mine, there is the image of a salt flat). on the outside, where my face should be, is a smooth vast plain of skin where my features have sunken in and reversed because the brain is much easier to dissect when i can see directly inside, when i can taste its briny fissures with my tongue. (fissures become canyons where i wander in search of memory. but the memory of you is somewhere other than just my brain.)


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