My grandfather fixes a broken light switch, signaling his brain
back to body, and I spend too long in the room where the man
flips the coin to determine whether I stay
or go. I don’t know
if an interactive art exhibit where I enter a series of rooms can simulate
the gray of waiting for neuron to catch synapse—to leverage
muscle, to tendon,
to bone,
but the cat has an innate compulsion to lick the fur
off my Ikea blanket, and I hear it first as oceanic, like the sound
of surf-break in a shell—but she thinks everything is her baby, a soft
thing to groom,
and I can only think of salt-water waves on a beach, and the room
is an elevator that won’t let me off unless I pay a ticket, or a coin,
or convince 6 people to exit
with me.
My mother pictures his brain as lit up in all the places his body
can’t reach, and we share the picture on Facebook, of a wire soldered back
to where it fits, as proof that something
has healed,
but I have to go back to the beginning,
because I’ve paid all my tickets
before I’ve entered all the rooms.
BROOKE SCHIFANO is a poet, currently working on her MFA at UMASS Boston. She lives in a small house with her cat and her person.