“So…will you follow?”

The cave is thick with smoke. His breath smells of poached legs from the dark side of the swamp. Some days I play the water and no keys come out. Some days I twist the vines and no doors open up. Some days I jump on a new idea and no fog fizzles down. Some days I put words on tongues and no arguments doubt. Some days I ask for strawberry-flavored jello and no spoon fits into my mouth. Some days I starve my weight and no pain rings out. Some days my heart says don’t walk. Don’t walk. Don’t walk. Don’t walk. Don’t get up. Don’t get up. Just get out. Get the fuck out. Get the fuck out of dodge. Get the fuck out of dodge. Get the fuck out of dodge. Duck. Deke. Disregard dimes. Hide in the corner with your shirt to your side. Feel the fringes. The embroidered lines. Feel the collar. The two buttons. Feel the hems. The frays near the neck line. Feel the short sleeves. The hairs sticking out under your underarms. Feel the savage in your heart. Let it ravage any forces trying to keep it bottled up inside. Never wait for the pressure to subside. Push through the propane with fire. Land on every minor key even when you’re lying. Twist your ankle to the right. Clean your bones. Smear the snot. Do shit backwards. Side to side shit do. Down and up shit do. Heart and head shit do. It stick and thicket shit do. Push moss into Lucien’s eyes. Gouge out the gout. Spider-web his gashed-up arms. And do it.

Swallow the tortoise heart.

So I swallow the tortoise heart. Feel the creature swim down. Let it overtake my body. Let it overtake my arms. Let it overtake my flippers and turn them into flippy-floppy arms. And here is truth, the creature is still swimming. It’s still flipping. It’s still flopping. It’s still gliding. It’s still kicking-up sand at the foot of my bed every night because I can’t undo the rite. I can’t make up what’s heaven or what’s delight. I can’t make up protection when it’s gilded on my spine. I can’t bite chainmail tough enough for sharks. I can’t make eggs. I can’t make eggs. I can’t whittle wind or sing sins bright enough for gods.

But so what.

I aim for the riptide.

I miss many. Hell — I miss lots.

I’m a clumsy-hungry spongy-pumping bloody tortoise heart.