Sometimes I do not know my face.
I see a woman mistaken for an abuela on the Stockton to Sacramento Greyhound. Or, my mother if she never dyed her hair. Maybe I am the sepia photo of my great grandmother when she was a teen. Our eyes could be siblings, and she kept a travel journal.
Still, this body feels like a rental. I do not know this aching back demanding pills and Biofreeze. The cracks in my skeleton. The blood pressure slow as a humpback heartbeat.
I know my feet and hands – fingers as they press keys for word-making – feet as they change mood like the ring purchased in a souvenir store.
Sometimes I am shaken by worry that I’ll slip through my skin. This happens when I see my reflection and know this life is a rock skipping across a lake.
Night dreams sweep visitors into my room – flashes of wonder and terror – and I count blessings this only happens at bedtime. Otherwise, I would be in a hospital.
I do not know this house with slanted floors and doors that open and close on their own.
I do not know this street with artists or the thin men walking for meth.
I hardly know my brothers or my parents.
I know a little of my husband because he knows love as a galaxy, and so I know the taste of
Pinto beans with sweet onion
Coppery roux in a gumbo
Smoked chicken falling from its bones
There are other truths:
I am temporarily able-bodied, made of carbon.
The planet changes faster than we innovate.
God busted into dreams all over the Bible.
Maybe one day a dinosaur will pump me into a gas tank.
Sometimes my teeth fall out in my dreams. Sometimes I chew them until they are paste.
I cringe at life’s slippery edges and know I am a holy fool, forever.