squirrels keep the score

you want the photos

from your briss

you want welts

from the hand that raked your shoulder

you want the ct scan

you want the ultrasound

the warm goo they rubbed above your spleen

you want the fingernail

that cut your eyelid

you want the first kiss

the bitten lip

an apology

you want the burn blisters

that mapped a continent of your foot

you're putting together

an album

a time capsule for your alien future

a bricolage of bitter acorns

to bury in your soil

 

you're flunking the doodles

you're bad at math

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