(In the homeless writing workshop today, I gave the prompt of Super Vision based on a gorgeous book I brought in — it shows the world that exists that we can only see with microscopes and other new technology. The goal: to try to see beyond what we initially see, and because writing asks us to do that anyway.)
I wake and scrape sweat off my chest: the dog has slunk up into bed where the baby will be.
Fur under a microscope has a gasoline rainbow inside.
Fur patterns on the sheets: fractals, snowflake articulations. Superfur.
A core sample of his body, down past the fur a layer of muscle, sinew, bugs, coral bones.
He arranges himself around his ribs, his coat of arms.
His blood a tattoo, blue river patterns.
Rice in his intestines. Bugs along his eyelashes.
On the mattress: dirt particles.
A spine shield, it protects my body from the window.
At night the husband mutters, takes a pillow and with sinew hands slams
the mattress, slams the mattress.
Dirt fur patterns scatter, reassemble on the floor,
dirt residue like cinnamon like fleas left behind. White sheets.
Or gray-white sheets.
The dog spine curves, folds, S1 S2 S3 pushes against me.
Each spine pearl, each rubber muscle, no ice cubes.
The down quilt: dead feathers coagulate heat,
dead feathers washed and clumped, falling out of some crack in the quilt,
stuck in the northwest corner of the bedroom,
and down into my lungs and the dog lungs,
down our windpipes, quiet flutes at night.
The baby is partially comprised of dog fur and down.
I swallow dust and the baby digests, becomes us.
I don’t want the dog off the bed.