Code
The splinter in my foot is fashioned from glass, broken sharply off of something that has fallen and shattered on the kitchen floor. A glass, or a world. It wedges itself into the bottom of my sole.
The sun outside splits the front yard into a nautical marine signal flag. The sky plays tricks on my eyes, and the lawn signals my thoughts in code, only to be deciphered—much later—by the dandelions in early May.
I chant the code, jot down the words on scrap paper:
Yankee Tango Oscar Delta Echo Golf Juliet Tango
Golf India Golf Kilo Mike
I drag an anchor
Keep clear
Man overboard
I maneuver with difficulty
I alter my course to starboard
I require a pilot
I am on fire with dangerous cargo
Keep clear
I require a pilot
I shift my course to port
I require a pilot
I wish to communicate with you
My vessel is stopped
I sit on the floor, extract tiny, slivered bits of glass, watch the blood river itself into a map of the arch, the ball, the open palm of my foot.