I anesthetic back from ten,
by Aidan Castro
opened my lids to find
my brain stem reattached
and bound by staples
stretched across my chest.
This body that is now my body
runs tangerine through trees.
My calls to god sutured
rippled water to the rain.
I reach into a Scrub Jay’s nest
and crack open each inhale,
and I exhale desire
for many more years,
more than wishes for concrete
shoes and an ocean walk.
I nest in further
and pick my eyes one socket at a time,
wash them in soft dirt,
and put them back in to find
every head tilt refracts
the earths light and colors.
I try to grab them all out of the sky,
as if they will fall and be taken
from me again. I swallow
what could fit in my hands.
I am all the shades of red
that weep into drainage tubes
pierced through my side.