FLEA TRAP

"And in this flea our two bloods mingled be..."
—John Donne

1)

When M___ shuffles into the madhouse lobby—no earrings, no laces in her shoes—it seems inopportune to mention the pan of water and liquid Dawn that I rigged up on our bedroom floor, how the lamp shines above it like a lover's moon over Pascagoula, but when fleas leap for the heat of the bulb, the great arc of their adventure lands them in the pan where they bog down in the slimy pull of soap.

2)

Since the voices told M___ to check herself in, neither of us knows if or when we'll stroll  down our busted sidewalk between the blighted dogwoods, just me and M___ and M___'s favorite flea, the flea who loved her when she flushed her meds, flea whom she walked around our neighborhood on a leash of thread, cussing out old ladies if they stepped too close, and M___'s flea cussing too, though only she and dolphins could hear his high-pitched cry, his tiny complaint.

3)

I don't tell  M___ that Mr. Mattuse will not replace the AC  that fell out of the window when the window fell out, just as he refuses to bomb beneath the house where the infestation began in a dank oasis of sandy soil and leaky pipes. M___ reports a surprisingly tasty tapioca. Says the orderlies unraveled her French braids to prevent self-harm, which seems odd given that she spent half a day weaving a hanging basket in occupational therapy. Fleas and love, love and fleas. There are two things driving me crazy, and only one of them is crazy.

4)

In lieu of M____, I sing to the  fleas. I whistle as they spin in their soapy orbits. I hum a lullaby to the fleas decked out in their watery death boats about which I am starting to feel a creeping  guilt. Soon, I'll get lonely and have to perform CPR on a flea I nearly watch drown before I come to my senses and fish him out,  and his brothers and sisters, his aunts and cousins, and his pets, and his pets' fleas. I shall lie on the floor naked and let them feast on my elbows and knuckles until they are the size of average humans.

5)

Bottoms up, I say to M___ when the nurse rounds the corner with her clipboard and dose. To good hygiene, M___ says, then burps, which magnetizes me, makes me long for a month of  kisses. But there are rules. Rules in lieu of sanity. Traps for fleas, rules for kisses. For instance, I don't ask M___, why did you abandon me? Was I the heat, or the hound beneath the flea-bait porch?

6)

Nor do I offer the letter that began, Dear M___, I moved to Virginia. Nor the one that started, Dear M___, I paid the rent.  Dear M___, the stuck fleas kick in tight, gluey circles before settling into their new look: flecks of pepper in the dishwater of circumstance. Still, when the nurse takes her smoke break, we slip like newlyweds down the long hall toward the barred window, the linoleum squeaky, buffed to an anti-sceptic mirror-like glow. Excluding the taste  of each other's lips, neither of us knows what to expect.

7)

What I tell M___:  I wrote a poem about a squirrel and a pillow case, walked to Delchamp's for free coffee, Hardin's for day-old  doughnuts.

__

PRAYER FOR MY SISTER

—G.C.B., 1965-2013

I am bold to say
  I am the shadow,
    she is whole,
      and memory is a mirror
        for me, but for her
          it's more a window
            where she sees us,
              two kids again
                talking under
                  water—our floating
                    hair, our conversation
                    
in actual bubbles                   
  popping somewhere
    in the telescopic past
      of a kidney-shaped pool,
        which on scale
          with infinity is still
            rather near where I
              pray, bold to hear
                two voices held
                  apart—sending
                    messages in waves.

__

"Flea Trap": I was not proud of the casualties that I inflicted in my summer long war with the fleas, but the trap I engineered has attached itself to my memory of that time, rife as it was with love and psychosis. 

"Pray for My Sister": Having accepted that I will not have another actual conversation with my late sister in this dimension, I pursue possible signals from the quantum level and begin scaling upwards until I reach those mouth-sized bubbles rising in the pool at Park Villa Apartments, circa 1977.