newspaper
My brain refuses
to believe
what it reads
about itself
in the newspaper.
Newspapers are dying.
Reading is dying.
The brain’s like a goldfish now.
Attention is dying.
My brain waking in the morning
is a revolution. I’ll say it.
It lives with me in my head
when I sleep or pee, or take a shower,
sear steaks in a pan, or
watch twelve talking heads
trying to become president in my living room.
My brain travels
with its own podium
—this rest of me it drags
underneath throughout the day.
I take it to work, the grocery store,
I lay it down on the couch when it’s tired.
I feed it whatever’s left in the fridge.
My brain swears she was born first.
She tells the story this way.
Before our body there was the idea
of what we might become. That was me.
I lived in that potential like a bird
in an egg. It was all I could do
to wait for you to catch up with me.
Every bit of you was wobbly or slack.
Then, like an aging relative,
she stares into the distance
and smiles. Like she’s finally found
an answer. Like I’m finally listening.
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