(Before B.’s death. Before M.’s diagnosis.)
I.
Poor us, we are all kings / when we gaze at the starry sky – Novica Tadić
[I HAVE DIED]
I have died at least a dozen different types of death. I am not familiar with poetic forms. I do not know the capitals of most countries. I will not touch the soil, snow, or water of each continent before I am one hundred years old. I do not think I will make it to one hundred years old. I have not had, but am fascinated by people with large hairdos. I change my hair according to who I presently love. My daughter is the best at throwing crayons in the moments when I do not expect any object to go flying through the air. I find myself more saddened after having a good idea than after having a bad one. The former usually leads to ignoring the present, and the latter usually induces laughter, which brings me deeply into the present. I have mangled bread, cuts of perfectly cooked meat, and my own words. Scientifically speaking, people who live in the present are happier than people who live in the past or the future, even if the imagined future is a happy one and even if the past if full of fond memories. I do not know anyone who has proclaimed “I have a past full of fond memories,” but I believe someone has made this proclamation. I do not know what people mean when they say “you have to live in the moment” or “seize the day.” Both statements evoke in me images of a long day spent eating cheesecake, drinking espresso, watching rain, and touching myself all while remaining in bed. I have yet to discover who I am. When I am tired, bird sounds are a nuisance. When I am fully-rested, bird sounds are beautiful and provoke no thoughts. The types of deaths I have died vary between the imaginary, the superimposed, the metaphorical, the spiritual, the theatrical, the indefinable, and a mixture of some or all of these. For my first love, I let my hair grow long. I cut it only to tell him I no longer loved him. I have never been stung by a bee, but I imagine it feels worse than getting a shot. I have colored my eyelids magenta, canary yellow, black, and emerald. For my first real love, I cut my hair short, but only after we faded apart. I could not say the words “I love you” or “come back.” The deaths that hurt the most have been totally inexplicable. I feel just as much sadness when a young adult stranger dies as I do when someone I know personally that is over the age of life expectancy dies. I do not think death is an equalizer. I have watched and re-watched videos on the creation of the universe intended to educate the layperson and have failed to learn or understand a single new thing. I think one day the sun will explode. I will not be here to see it. For my sister, I have shaved my head. For my sorrow, I sign up for emails from places that sell well-made and expensive clothes I do not intend to buy. I can’t imagine it, but I believe one day nothing will exist. My sorrow often dresses poorly. My daughter, too young yet to speak or write, hit my keyboard in such a way that a search for mononucleotides came up. I do not know what a mononucleotide is, but I think it involves one of something. I like to imagine the universe was created the same way my daughter plays. What I mean to say is, I like to imagine god or a star or nothingness threw me here accidentally or without intention. One day I will suffer more than I suffer today. One day I will suffer less than I suffer today. I do not trust people who say “trust me.” I have told others to trust me. I do not like the way I look in the colors pink and orange, yet, from time to time, I wear them just to be certain this has not changed. My daughter looks just as much herself in any color. I wonder why she is here. I wonder what I have done. If it were technologically possible, I would have my consciousness uploaded into a computer, but only if the people I love most agreed to do it too and only if the worst people had no interest in it. I am not sure who the worst people are. I do not think I would regret living forever. I hate the way bananas feel against my hands. I would not want to spend eternity covered in banana slime even in the presence of everyone I love. I do not know what poetry is on paper, but I know how poetry feels. I watch my daughter as much as she watches me. One day I will die a death from which nothing will emerge. I have never dyed my hair purple. I have never seized the day. I have died laughing…
II.
you don’t hear them you don’t see them / these microscopic particles in one in all – Gabriel Decuble
[I HAVE MADE]
I have made art, love, medical phone calls, spinach and gruyere quiche, all sorts of arrangements, and very little peace. I have broken implied vows, hard-working chairs, trust, hand painted fruit bowls, a bed that was not mine, a restaurant toilet, and approximately several hundred eggs. I have said “it’s not what you think it is” when I meant “it’s not what I think it is.” I am more attracted to an off-green than I am to an off-yellow or an off-blue. When my sister gave birth in front of me, several other people in witness said I turned a strange shade of green. I do not know if this was meant to be taken metaphorically. I have very seldom heard and felt “it will be okay.” I am trapped in superimposed realities. For example, I am here—in an apartment in Washington, D.C.—and I am also nowhere—cosmically, no enough to be a speck. I have tried to offend only a handful of people in my life. I have tried not to offend almost every person in my life. I am terrible at discerning the metaphorical from the factual. I think there is very little difference to separate the two. I do not know if love is doing or not doing. After long bouts of hunger and after unexpected excellent news, I have eaten terrible food with abundant enjoyment. After long bouts of over-eating and after unexpected terrible news, I have eaten amazing food with absolutely no enjoyment. I have made mediocre art, mediocre love, mediocre medical phone calls, mediocre spinach and gruyere quiche, all sorts of mediocre arrangements, and very little mediocre peace. One day, I want my feet to fail me. Romantically, I have loved very few people. Platonically, I have loved even fewer people. I have loved many people in unclassifiable ways. I will eat insects and their legs, but I will not eat a lamb and its legs. I have kept a box of expired whole wheat crackers I purchased before my sister was diagnosed, before she grew strangely out of and into her body. I do not know what will happen with the past if I throw the crackers away. I do not know what will happen with the past if I keep the crackers forever. I have thought “forever seems like a boring idea.” I have also thought “life is nothing but a breath in which no word is spoken.” I cry when anyone prays aloud unless it is over food. When I am sad, I feel a large lump in my throat that makes it hard to swallow, speak, eat, drink, or breathe. I have almost drowned. I have nothing. I have everything. I have made a space in myself in which to bury my sister. I have not figured out what will happen to her when I go. I have made a long impenetrable silence. I have made unrecognizable words. I have made the worst human sound.
III.
Dark things open my eyes, / raise my hands, knot my fingers – Novica Tadić
[I SEE LITTLE]
I see little tongues anywhere I look. I am not concerned with, but I am intrigued by the fundamentals of the tongue. There are many flowers, peppers, and tomatoes that look somewhat human. I have spoken effectively in several languages that I do not know. I have not spoken effectively in my primary language. I have tongued and been tongued. When I say “I love you,” I mean “goodbye.” When I say “I love you” without sincerity, I still mean “goodbye.” Weekends evaporate like lost languages. Mondays, I see little tongues that are not tongues, but words quivering and ready to speak. I love the idea of se-saws, but hate the idea of seas and saws. Tranquility screams danger. “Monday” is interchangeable with “unremarkable day.” I will never utter a single word to most people who exist now or in the future, and I cannot imagine I will utter any words to those who have existed in the past. There are times “Monday” simply means Monday. I have witnessed my own face in a mirror long enough to feel possessed. Though I think in words, I cannot always comprehend what they were attempting to represent. I believe there is a true idea. I do not remember how or when I snapped out of disembodiment though I am on the other side now, or, at the very least, I have effectively imagined being on the other side. There are times my mother says “lord” when she means “world.” I have chewed paper, wax, foil, wood, cardboard, and my words with and without intention. I am terrible at long goodbyes and even more terrible at short hellos. I do not want life to be the longest goodbye. I am disturbed by the phrase “non-gifted.” I do not excel at grammar, spelling, or linguistics. I have not recently won a race. I have not swallowed pills, both real and metaphorical, that were too hard to swallow. I have licked envelopes, body parts, and iterations of wood and dairy. I have not licked a live tiger, a Mora eel, a real gem, or the ear of anyone who was never a lover. I have been accused of being possessed. I have crashed cars, bikes, scooters, wagons, and wheelbarrows. I have not crashed planes, gliders, snowplows, or limousines. I have accidentally swallowed pills, both real and metaphorical, that were too hard to swallow. When I was a child, I practiced swallowing pills by swallowing small chocolates whole. I have been spoken at, to, and with. I have spoken at, to, and with my moon-eyed daughter. My daughter’s tongue is as decipherable as a dove trapped in a glass room. I believe one day the dove will escape. Life is the longest goodbye. I have cut my eye on the smallest fragment of glass. There is no story to tell. I want someone to say they have nothing to tell me that silence could not. I want this to be said without sound. I do not know what a camel smells like, but I have said “it smells like a camel.” I wonder if my skeleton will be displayed anywhere. I have not heard voices. I have not spoken in tongues. I have heard voices. I have spoken in tongues. I have talked to dogs, the dead, and the imaginary. I see little tongues ripe as strawberries everywhere, rotting to be plucked.
IV.
In keeping with our lives of gentle desperation / doves and angels arrive at the window – Ioan Moldovan
[I DO NOT KNOW]
I do not know how a photon functions, but I know how to make a meal from any five or more ingredients. I do not know how to quickly unjam a drawer. I am nervous when squirrels appear to be attempting to cross the street. I hate it when people complain about not getting chosen. When I complain about not getting chosen, I never feel any better. I have toned my biceps, triceps, calves, glutes, forearms, pectorals, abdominals, hamstrings, quads, rhomboids, traps, obliques, lats, deltoids, and vaginal walls, but I have never toned my fingers or toes, my tongue, or my neck. I have not atoned for any sins. I cannot wiggle my ears, but I can move one butt cheek up while the other stays down. I can do this back and forth relatively quickly. I have regretted ordering salad and fruit. I have never regretted ordering grilled or roasted chicken, even when it is dry or under seasoned. I have had acute conditions turn into chronic conditions. I hate the way my mouth tastes and feels after consuming dairy, crackers, and cookies. I have said “I love you” to a handful of people who I did not love, and to an even smaller handful of people who I have loved, I have not said “I love you.” I have my tonsils. I am missing my spleen. I am a terrible speller in any language. As far as I know, I have had an appropriate amount of every organ other than the spleen, which I once had two of. I often think and sometimes say “capitalism sucks.” I rarely have money in savings. I rarely am without food or shelter. Sometimes I want the space I inhabit to be completely empty. Other times I want it to be filled to the brim with useless and precariously stacked objects. I have watched television long enough to feel shame. I have never read long enough to feel shame. I do not plan on getting a tattoo on my face or neck, but cannot say with one hundred percent certainty that I would never do it. I do not like to imagine what it’s like to be an inmate in a notorious prison. More than anything, I think it would be horrifyingly boring. I have eaten the eggs, bodies, bones, wings, skin, tongues, faces, and feet of other creatures. I like the idea of eating out more than I like the act of eating out. At the end of a meal at a restaurant, usually as the check is presented, I cannot stop myself from imagining how I would change, though not necessarily improve, the meal. When I was a child, I counted my fingers and toes before bed. If I did not count my fingers and toes, I could not sleep. I have never kept a secret that was not my own. I have prayed to die. I have been in relationships with multiple people at once for most of my relationships. I do not like egg salad. I do not like pickled feet. I do not know where most things begin and end.
MERCY CONTEST FINALIST, 2023
Tamara Panici’s works have appeared in places like POETRY, Northwest Review, Denver Quarterly, Black Warrior Review, Waxwing, The American Journal of Poetry, and elsewhere. She has been a finalist for the Ruth Lilly and Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Fellowship from the Poetry Foundation, and has won prizes including the The Margaret Reid Poetry Contest, the Black Warrior Review Poetry Contest, and the River Styx Microfiction Contest, among others. She lives in Washington, D.C. with her partner and their child, and their child-to-be.