Some nights, both Xs fall left of center, my center left less than content or steady and I vibrate at the wrong frequency tonight with a pitch too high, sucking a tuning fork to still it in the sinus cavity— spit metallic, the shrill hammers my ear drums tonight only tonight I want only tone deafness tonight.
I am asking about water. Or rather, whether the water in me is the water that moves the direction I need to see or be seeded: that is the question. How conceited a focus— walking, navel-gazing, dowsing rods copper-crossed in my direction, impaled by surprise and your affection.
I am most alive forty minutes shower-scalded, drowning myself in the waves of your let-down bun (tea tree patchouli stale sheets) Pheromones: you: so human, me, hemorrhaging in your hands forgetting the Other feeling, how I see me— at least until I see you see me.
Sara Hunter-Campbell is chronically ambivalent and endlessly enthralled, working in mental health, writing inconsistently, and living in southwestern Pennsylvania with a ferociously lovely wife.