October 2026 - Vol. 23, Issue 5

The part when I grab your face like a planet science searches for

too late, hoping for a new body as the alternative. Saying I know this container already, that they clipped the cord to clear its storage; the part with stretch marks

and I, guilty as ever, still needing to be mothered.

The part I step backwards

into her, who first called it falling

with a mop bucket and flesh tape for bones.

The part when the bedside monitor’s scribbles are not lost strands of hair that explain where we began, just that we’re here now,

like the remaining animal refused to the forest floor. The part in assemblage.

In red exclamation points to dictate emergency. The part I need a medicine that, like her, is God’s scarce one.

When I, separate, essentially nourish in supplemental factors–to save this one. To go beyond the ICU wrapped in its vital cords. Like crutch for the foot. The foot for the story, calloused. Parasitism; the tick fat from the harbor of another’s body.

I only needed two hands with mine still reaching for Mars. The part of Mars that’s worth trying for.

I was given, instead, two chances to hold this one a little longer.