This morning’s disguise has boots on and a liberal coat of tung nut oil with its rancid tang. No-one will know me now that I smell like a workshop and have these feet that step along the new day’s path fresh plotted stamping on the leaves the wind placed just so and the light angling in now shy to enter the day’s numerals. Shellack in my hair so it will not waver to decision or judgement. I worry my sawdust knots will trail me and give me away, falling in pasta curls so; fusilli, gigli hair on the path thought I no longer need it each one is a sample of me; a map of how I was constructed and they leave me as I am planed by moments, the wind the twist in the air sharp as a saw; a genetics of timescape felled from me.
Beetles creep past my ears. Are they looking for the wings I stole to construct my own carapace? Will oil seal out the water that wants my skin or keep the tears ready at the corner of my eye? Why must I be the secret to myself, the blend of carbon and nitrogen I used to build myself from my mother’s own bones that will be blown around by this air I hold dear in my spongey lungs that then will spread back across the blasted place as it reeks of half made darlings and shaggy breath of things that were never polished til they shone? The wind’s tongue tastes of DNA long gone, made of crisp gold grass heads processessed beyond process so they become my daughter’s curls.
I wear the age defying oil, bead the rain off and plot my genetic code along the hour line. So far we cannot say why this exact temperature fractures the quality I know and unmakes me in the winter glare; holds my transfiguration up to its eyeline but seems to fail me on some unknown point. The irascible sunlight. The way it can’t travel through me after all its travelling. It has gleamed off my oil and reflected so those deep curls travel in darkness behind my boot-falls, behind those steps I took to be unseen.