Cooking the Hook

  There is little to know. It’s dark and I’m thirsty. It’s quiet. A soft, steady wind coming and going from  different points of my compass. I’m floating on my back in water as warm as the air. It moves like the sea,  lifting me closer to stars I don’t recognize. Lowering me down like it’s a living, breathing thing I’m inside of.  Pain comes with those fake stars, stays too long, and wears out its welcome. If I think about place, position,  or perspective, I get dizzy-sick, so I try not to think ‘there’ or ‘where’. At least pain is an anchor. There’s touch and smell. Kind, caring strangers peck at me, busy but gentle, all sharp with antiseptic over sweat. A woman who smelled like fresh dirt and green things held her hands to my face and bargained with strange gods. Another touched my hands, my hair over and over. She smelled like a party. I’m washed, dried, stabbed, dressed, undressed, stabbed. Repeat and again. Then he comes, holds my hand. A life force, a dragon. Steel, flesh, and fi