Insularity

Open your mind, say the old voices, the new voices. Once Saturday morning I heeded those voices, eyes burning, and went outside in the light of the grass, as green and gray and lifeless as the bread we earn and live by. I unlatched my cranium there, facing the east like a faithful devotee, held my watery mass in my two hands and little do you know how like a fly you were, caught in the web of my nerve endings How the spider kept house in the corner, parasitic, despised by the housewife and the dendrites stretched like household plants to defy the roots. I said goodbye to the waterspout and the cobwebs like a seed in a mound of mud and split along the hilum of my skull, breathing air for the first time.