Field Notes on Avoidance

Field Notes on Avoidance

Turtles breathe through their backsides,
cloacal respiration,
and I can't bring the right words
out of my single, human mouth.

I am like the parrotfish
wrapped in spit at night,
a bubble of safety
to keep the world out.

You look down when you mean to reach.
I smile when I mean to shatter.
We circle like octopus arms,
each with its own brain,
separate, tangled, acting alone.

A woodpecker's tongue wraps its brain
to guard against concussion.
Mine knots inside my mouth,
leaves me silent,
banging my head against invisible walls
and gathering no sustenance.

Hummingbirds detect sugar
better than any lab we've invented.
And I can't find the right moment
to start this conversation.

Elephants sense seismic shifts
from miles away,
and I can't detect the tremors
in your voice
when you are next to me.

Crows remember human faces for years,
hold grudges like precious stones,
but I forget who I want to be
the moment you walk into the room.

Moss pigs survive radiation,
decades of dehydration,
boiling water, frozen earth,
but a splinter in my thumb
takes me down for two days.

If sloths can hold their breath
longer than dolphins,
maybe I can hold this
truth one more minute,
this thing I still don't know how to say.

The immortal jellyfish
ages in reverse
when life gets hard.
I only grow more confused
about what I want from you.

Welwitschia lives a thousand years
with only two leaves,
asks so little, endures so long.
Why can't we be satisfied
with less than everything?

53/100
-nl