Undo

I want an undo option on the keyboard of my life. Not for big stuff, but for small, mindless typos dotting my page. When I scrape my knuckle on the bathroom drawer it will unfold the warped flap of skin and before my eyes lay it back down healed. When I blurt out words that should be kept to myself, it will suck them back as if through a straw to the moment just before their utterance. When I drop a capless permanent marker that skids across my pant leg and lands tip down on my shoe it will rewind the action, leaving the surfaces clean and the pen back in my hand in time for me to add the cap. When I turn too sharply in the spiraling parking structure and scrape my van on an interior wall, it will replay the action with me two inches in the clear. My undo key must be hidden and safe; perhaps my armpit so I don't accidentally undo the undo, and break my nail in the frenzy.

Brain Drain

At the instant your words reach my ears, inviting me to listen, the audible stream washes me from your side, hoses me like heavy rain down a storm drain, bound for the sewer of my brain. I struggle to hold on to the grate, to hear you through the chaos. Your voice fades to the background as a bubble encircles my head, fills with my own story of a time I felt exactly like you, which competes with a list of objections to your viewpoint and your tone, and is followed by a clear picture of what you should do next. Out of context, out of nowhere pops an inspiration for my next poem and the realization that you’re wearing new glasses. The cacophony ricochets from wall to wall, reduces your voice to a distant plea to be heard.

Leaving her brain behind

Leaving her brain near the door, she steps into her body, penetrates the thick steam. Filtered sunlight casts the landscape outside onto the cool textured floor. For the first time in weeks she feels the warm water circle the top of her head, surrenders to the crown, leans in to the silky spray tapping like rain on her skull. Droplets into stream rush down her scalp . . . encircle her shoulders . . . caress her backside and inner thigh, rounding to the outside of her legs just below the knees. She smiles and verbalizes her exhalation . . . inhales the spicy shampoo oozing a glossy pink ribbon into her palm . . . massages it into her scalp with all ten fingers. Squeezing grainy face scrub out of an almost-empty tube using two hands, she notices the diminishing supply. Cat’s tongue roughness, applied in circular motion on cheeks and forehead, urges layers of skin down the drain. Scrubber, frosted in pearly strands, explodes jasmine and rosemary up her nose and onto her skin; scratches her body’s itch. She reaches for the razor, sunken to the bottom of the basket of toiletries on the floor. It glides through the shampoo she substitutes for shaving cream, leaves a path of bare skin. In the middle of winter shaving her legs is an intention to initiate sex. Surely God stands near, back to the cold tiles, regards her with loving eyes and makes sure she rinses thoroughly.