Burning Haibun #1: First Episode Psychosis Pentecost
after torrin a. greathouse
i confess a childish faith in the high desert. it’s there, in that smoking, highway-slashed
floodplain that i learned to speak, and to breathe. the first time the dam broke, i was too young to
know to be afraid of my own mind. a vision: on the long walk back from the riverbed to the
mirage-veiled parking lot, under walnut trees, through incomprehensible dog-day heat, along a
shade-drenched, heron-studded trail, i, in a neon green t-shirt, cast my ten-year-old shadow; i
could not be shut off. smashed vessels, opened valves meant nothing to me: my blood gushing
from my face was cooler than the air. when a soft, scorching breeze stuck my soaked & staining
clothes to sunburned skin, i was glad for the damage. drought was the staff of the prophet who
struck me like a stone, summoning streams; summer, the god in the bell that first set my world
singing. off the bus up from the river basin, up the steps to my mother’s house, a doorbell, and
another kind of breakage. i pad down the hall and into the bathroom, press bare feet to cool white
tile, watch the grout-gridded pattern blur as i let my clothes pool on the floor. the plumbing hits a
pitch like a fever as i crank the faucet open— a cold shower to wash off the sun of the day. i feel
good, i keep the lights off. my ears ring, i stare at each of my fingers individually, run my tongue
out and pant like a kit fox, let sweat-stiff drifting tendrils of my long girlish hair make a catfish
of me. i know i am a creature made of creatures; the mirror can never show me what is real. and
suddenly— something catches fire: the clatter of the pipes to my left congeals into a nocturne,
actual and holy as the water. there is no imagination here, no choice, just music, as involuntary as
the television buzzing in the background and for years it visits me and i know no fear. i am so
young, so undimmable; i always feel like god and i don’t even notice; why should this cloudburst
register as something wrong?
//
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naage-veiled pardeh incomprehensible dl, i, in a neon t-shirt,fds
cast my ten-year-old off. smashed vessels, nothing te: fjdsfdfjdsd
my blood guace was cooen a soft, scoked & staining ned skwasd
glad for tphet me like a stone, summoning streams; summer, the
rld singing. tp from the river bas, up eps to me, a dother kind off
breakage. i pad down the hall and into the batto cool white tile,df
watch the grout-gridded pattern blur as i let my clothes pool onff
the floor. the plumbing hits a pitch like a fever as i crank the faudf
cet open— a cold shower to wash off the sun of the day. i feel g4o
od, i keep the lights off. my ears ring, i stare at each of my fingerd
, run my tongue out and paendrils of my i know i am a creaturejfjf
made of creatures; the mirror can never show me what is real. An
d fire: thy left congeals into nocturd holy as the watfear. i am so y
//
i am a bastard child of sert. it’s tht-shirt, cast my be shut off. smashed vessels, open
meajkj blood gushinstaining. d singing. off ts up from the rivch the grouhe floor.gggj
h like a fever as i c— a cold sho tongue out and pe. of s; jkjkjkljfdslfire: the clatter of t
Ros Seamark is a queer poet & translator from Central California. You can read more of their work in Sugar House Review, Poetry Online, and Fairy Piece Mag.
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