copycat

but sometimes

sometimes knowing 

all the same

I can do the dishes with my eyes closed,

But I don't,

My husband wouldn't like it,

I practically do the dishes with my eyes closed,

My brain far away,

Ruminating,

I would find all the remnants of food,

With my fingers,

The crick of the sponge finding cracks,

Until I'm scrubbing pure deterioration,

I would even flip the plates over,

And clean their backsides lovingly,

One problem I foresee would be pots,

Maybe pans,

Where does one end and the sink begin?

You can't touch everything at once,

You'd need a third hand,

For boundaries,

Don't want to risk water runoff,

It turned out to be a lot worse than we thought. This whole endometriosis thing is no joke. We tried to make light of it, but then it grew darker and darker around the house.

Plants died, dishes went undone. She got so weak, she couldn’t lift a thing. And I was no help around the house, I was too busy looking after her. As her button nose refused to rise in that upward jerking motion I’d come to like. Her skin grew waxen and oily to the touch. I had to force her to drink fluids. Any food, and she’d just puke it right back up.

I took her to the hospital and they stuck needles in her arms, tubes down her throat, cameras up you know where. And this is my wife for Chrissakes. Looking like a shish kabob, eerie in the blue glow of the machines.

---

It was fine for a while. Took me about two weeks to come to terms with the fact she wouldn’t be going to bed with me at night… wouldn’t be there to make a mess of the coffee the next day.

I fell back into old routines. Drinking too much. Smoking too much. 5 a.m. conversations about Faulkner and McCarthy, debates about who was the darker writer… that kind of stuff.

It was nice, I admit. Felt sort of like a vacation from myself. Got back to the way things used to be, before we got married, settled down, built a life of responsibility around the tree that grew right through the center of the house.

But when I finally went in to see her, I knew something wasn’t right. I sat with her a few days, played the dutiful husband, and sometimes I’d see a flutter in her eye. There were small indications that she was still alive. I sat there all night with her, even though she was mostly unresponsive. I just wanted her to know I was thinking about her. That I cared. Still do.

They said the pain would be too exquisite, that’s why they induced a coma. It takes a lot out of a person, getting layers of your uterus lasered off. Now we’re on day 30 of Helen in the Hospital and I don’t know how she does it. Today she looks positively radiant under those soft incandescents.

I’ve only been here about 3 days and I’m starting to acquire a film like I’m working my way into my own chrysalis or something. So, I blink my contacts back into place, gather up some of the crunchier flower petals from the windowsill and touch her fingers.

I want so bad to lean in and kiss those hands that pulled at me so eagerly just a few nights before, but I’m afraid to disturb her. Now that she looks peaceful…

I lean in and whisper in her ear, “I’ll be back later. I’m in desperate need of a shave,” I sort of laughed. She hated it when I didn’t shave. And my phone starts vibrating. “Don’t leave me,” the text says. Says it’s from number 12345678910.

I step back because this is a little much. Are the nurses playing tricks on me? I’m sure they’ve got a running tally and staying with a coma patient for 3 days straight must be up there, right? I’m a good guy... Bzzt. “I’m cold,” the next text says.

Now, I’m freaking out. I’m looking all around for some sort of electronic device. I’m starting to believe it. She was always cold. Especially her hands.

I touch her hands and they’re freezing. At that moment I wished I were a doctor so I could check her vital signs and everything, but I knew she was still in there. My Helen. My dark little minstrel. My warrior princess.

In a haze, or maybe I had an aneurysm or a mild seizure or something, but all of a sudden, I smelled a candle burning. Over to her left, near the window. I went over there and started sniffing. I had pretty much transformed at this point, getting down on all fours and sniffing around. Bzzt. “Our anniversary. Remember.” Bzzt. “The bath.” Bzzt. “You left the water on.”

I actually got carried away and hurriedly texted her back, “Wait, is the water on now or do you mean before?” “Before, silly…” Phew, I heaved a sigh of relief.

“And now.” I blinked down at my phone, incredulous. I was at a loss for words for once, which is rare for me. “Well, all righty then,” I’m furiously texting back, fingers flying over the screen like I’m the Flash on a mission to save some damsel in distress. But of course, this is not that kind of story. I’m really just freaked out and pissed and scared all at once, wondering, what the fuck. Is this really happening? I get all cocky. “Oh, yeah, well, if you’re so psychic or whatever, why don’t you just turn off the faucet at home then???” I used way too many question marks on that last text. But by now I’m all excited. It’s like some sordid game I’m playing with myself. Seriously, though, am I dreaming?

I look around the hospital room. Almost forgot she was lying there. I had this vision she was at home or whatever, poking around the house, tidying up, leaving the bath tub running out of spite. Sometimes she got like that. Uppity. Callous. Vengeful.

She started really scaring me sometimes when she got home and she was all super pissed about something at work. Why did she have to take it out on me? I’m her husband. I’ve been nothing but good to her. Gave her her own art space, sacrificed my writing space, and for what? Now she’s in this coma, not five feet from me and I’m “texting” her, apparently, like a crazy ass meth addict or something. Dreaming up schemes.

Wait, but is the bath tub on now???

“YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS” a thousand esses in that last text. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzzzzzzztttttt….

I grab my keys off the bedside swivel lunch tray, shove ‘em into my pocket, pivot on my feet towards the door. I’m all amped up now. Every muscle taut with kinetic energy. I’m like a spring on the verge of exploding through this olive drab and depressing ass artwork on the wall, but a thought strikes me and I turn back toward her, finger thrust in her direction. I say aloud, “Now, don’t you go anywhere. I don’t know if I trust you right now”. My eyes all squinty like a shifty raccoon.

Look at me, talking to a coma patient. Who’s the crazy one?

Seriously though, I feel insane.

I leave the hospital, I’m flying down 94, I whip into the driveway, vault up the stairs, and sure enough… the water’s dripping in the bath tub. Dwoop. Dwoop. It’s not exactly on, per se. It’s not gushing forth in unwarranted torrents of otherworldly anguish or whatever. Until I look away.

I reach to tighten the faucet and a rattling begins behind the walls. “This is not good…” I say. The pipes come bursting through the shower tiles in a spray of ceramic dust and yellowing grout.

Something must have knocked me out, because the next thing I know, I’m in a coma. Pushing all of my brain power into sending her electronic messages. Using the currents of microwaves, FM radio signals, whatever I can get ahold of to send her this story.

She does come visit me sometimes, but I feel like for the most part, she’s enjoying her time alone for once. At first she said she was pretty lonely, she was texting me all the time. But you get used to it I guess. Start up 10 projects, finish none, whatever it takes to keep you busy.

everyone's so competitive i'm starting to feel left out used to be the racehorse with the most endurance

not so quick to jump the gun right out the gate

now i'm the instigator the trigger-puller cheerleader

today 

we eat rattlesnakes 

for breakfast 

with tiny egg worm 

slivers 

in my pancakes 

no submission guidelines 

means

no cages 

won't you tie me up?