it took a day, maybe more
piecing together lost hours , pushing for visual cues
but still, nothing else beyond those first few seconds
of rushing trains (or some kind of Long land craft) grazing and damaging my right hand
I’m not sure if it’s still my body.
A human hand, yes, squeezing mine
but my own hand, my body: now a bloated, sheet white hairless, featureless thing. zentai skin
flesh without prints, missing meridian lines, wrinkles, a whole body of unknown substances
water and hints of blue liquid oozing from cut fingertips
that quickening train, come and gone like lightning
and my hand, struck by blind speed, and the human hand, squeezing the water out of my palms
It’s bleeding out less now
less gel from lacerations
white as clean stagnant milk
humanoid but maybe not so, a body without holes, a singular surface, sealed, except fingertips,
trickling water and blue blood
we shouldn’t be driving back to the city
“turn back” i tell the young, long lost cousin
in her silence, i dream of nuzzling her neck (such schoolgirl prettiness)
from her wordless tension, I know she is afraid of the island.
there are clone white houses, clone hangars as we make the curved return
minutes before the car ride, we were in the harbour mall, just along the straits, a 10 lane sea between us and the tall jungles of the island. i’m with historical figures from my personal myth. partners i should’ve buried properly, family no longer alive.
we had purchased last minute goods, buoyed by the sleep drifting tourist crowd towards our loading bays
then through the window came the orange glare, the black glare, soundless
the long houseboat or some kind of carrier docked outside is exploding
balls of fire blooming in slow motion, people walking, then running down ramps, avoiding hell fates.
I can sense the excitement of the deep jungles just beyond. a sneering density, calling us forth into its web, into its cave of vines and roots when she and I got into the car.
I already knew it wasn’t right. I knew this was cowardice. The island had thinned the herd. we lived. that means it wants us, her natives, her edenic children.
“turn back” i tell long lost cousin.” hesitant, she circles the white constructs, towards plumes and burning harbour