On Softness

First Place Winner of the 2018 UMaine Poetry Slam

It’s become more apparent recently that all my molecules have turned to that of wool. My organs have turned to steam, every step I rise just a bit higher from the floor. I hover from room to room, cutting through doors like butter. My breath 

feels more like a hiccup, and now all the air has breached my play-doh skull. When my mother kisses my forehead, there's a faint soft spot in my skin, my body’s reverted to infancy. I’m molding back into a child only with more work to do.

But why should I bother doing it when I’m just going to blow away tomorrow? When I stretch, the shoulders, I mean the puddy, I mean the noodles down the middle of my back wiggle and pop in the most delicious way.

My therapist interrupts me to call this dissociation, prescribes meditation and a good night’s sleep. But don’t you remember? I sleep like a baby. All I can think about is the right now. I’d rather be softness than roughness, wouldn’t you? 

But I see why she’s concerned. It’s probably not good that I have a hard time remembering my name is Jeanne, I mean, Claire, I mean Nola. It’s not helpful that I don’t remember how this conversation started. Right, she asked how I was 

feeling today. I said Soft. And told her about the steam in my lungs. Got it. 

She looks at me the way Alice does to the Mad Hatter. Thinks I’d fit in well at the unbirthday party. But I remind her that I’m actually the tea in the kettle. The 

condensation dripping on the outside of the pot. She says something else but now she’s underwater. Actually I’m a fish outside of the tank. I don't remember how I fell out. But I can’t hear her over the heartbeat in my fins. So I guess I’ll just 

watch the sand in the zen garden shiver ever so slightly with the rotation of the earth. I project myself into a single grain of sand and wonder if when someone drags the rake over me, will it be like body surfing? 

She’s stopped talking. A moment passes when she tries to read my thoughts but they’ve dissipated into the air. Can’t catch them now! I say something else, something like the parents in Charlie Brown. 

A door opens. My therapist floats away. I remember I’m in my room. It’s 1am. That appointment was yesterday morning. She told me to see her again next week, if I’m still on the ground.