I am going to write a song for you that will make you feel weird. It will set your teeth on edge, like trains knocked from tracks.
Your skin will get tight and itchy like you are too much pink meat shoved into too small a casing. You are going to need to start wearing long sleeves in July because you will tear your skin into ugly ribbons with your infernal scratching. You’re going to walk toward the pharmacy for a box of envelopes, say, or a ginger ale, and your skin will slough off you, leaving a fine white powder in your wake. You were that little girl who peed in the pool and ended up bobbing in a floating purple ring. All of the other kids in their brightly flowered bathing suits knew you were the one then. Everyone knows you’re the one now.
You with the skin of your arms like fly strips hung by an open kitchen window will forgo the envelopes so there’s no chance of running into your mother’s neighbor picking up her heart medication. You’re well aware that no one wants to see you looking like this and you yourself are going to need heart medication, not envelopes, when I’m done with you.
You will walk shame-faced into a diner to borrow a little hand broom for your mess on the street. Chilly pies will spin on a carousel. You will think ‘I’m hungry,’ and you will realize you are ravenous enough to eat your hands, both of them and then your toes, so you’ll buy up all the pies, the chocolate ones and the pumpkin ones and the syrupy cherry pies, and even the coconut pies, which you say you don’t like, but watch. You’ll buy those ones, too, along with every other pie in the place. You’ll return to the parking lot and sweep the white dust from the blacktop. You will think about licking it from your palm or rubbing it into the wet screens of your eyes or, if you’re feeling proper like you sometimes do, you’ll think about sifting it into a pound cake batter.
This song I’m writing for you is going to make you put your hand in your pants when you think I’m not looking. I’m always looking. Put your hand in your pants and if you do, I’ll put my hand in mine, and it will be like we are making pies together except that we’ve run out of lard. We stood at the sink and fed it to one other by the spoonful last Tuesday, each heavy dollop nearly big as an egg and run through the sugar bowl. Remember how our greasy teeth flashed at one another, our foreheads glowing like palms of moonlight laid over an evening lake.
So we will make cookies instead, side by side at the kitchen counter, cracking eggs and pulling apart stiff knots of raisins. I will hum it first and then sing this song that I’m going to write you, and it will make your arms and legs and your torso, all of the long parts of you, run loose like running water.
You will sleep fitfully at night while uneasy chains of words take over your head. Words like rotgut and apricot and kettledrum. You will think things like pigeon shit on my fingers and a cold bullet in my brain and gladiolas abloom in my lap. You will lie in the dark wondering why don’t we ever sit on hills and watch fireworks at noon, why don’t we clear away the snow and garden in the frozen ground, when our houses are really in need of something bright. Everything is going to make so much sense, even those things that never make sense. You are use to being coy but you will know what it all means, all of these loose trains of words looping through your head and tying you to the bed. You’ll probably gasp for breath dramatically. I will make you feel so weird, quietly singing this song into your pink ear.