THE PROOF IS IN THE PUDDING
Along with other unsavory ingredients: shriveled tsetse flies and gray unseeing eyeballs; slivers of glass and shards of memory; fragments of morgue imagination that perished in a waking nightmare; salt, pepper, dried tomatoes; a liberal sprinkling of worm-infested love.
I gag on the pudding and run out behind the garage where under a sky full of stars, I vomit it up.
An isolation-clad self-knowledge came to me at the age of seven while swaying the day away high in a maple tree. It vanished again when I climbed down and resumed pretending.
A taste of love is all it takes to bring it back home again.
I reach out and my hand vanishes.