The softness awakens in your chest

A bloom after a season of unrest

You gathered up what was left

And pushed it down into the soil of your heart

Its a choked muscle pumping spoiled blood

Coupled with a hard head that knows when enough is enough

But there’s just no trust

in what your body’s truly made of

No home to house your loneliness

No lover to guide a pitying kiss

Upon that sunken, sully cheek

Just an awkward bloom of gentleness

A cowardice spell of forgiveness

No more hate to quell

No more love to spill

Just a dying muscle, and a caving chest

Nothing else to do, but gather up what’s left

And seed it down within

And pray for another start

Study of the study of studying

Opening option is observation

Having a hint of hypothesis

Extemporaneous enthusiasm in expectation of experimentation

Done did deduced data

Collected conclusions carefully

Ferreted out facts

Publicized principles

Told truths

Systematically sorted

Painstakingly persistent

Argued and advanced

Revealed then repeated

I am the body

of a severed head

A divine vessel

the core of the apple

caving into itself

To understand myself

I know not the feeling

only the head rolling

the soft rumble leading

my blind footing

I am a severed body wilting

a dying impression of what was

before the decapitation

Slim evidence of intimacy

between a mind and a beating heart

It’s said people have a devil and an angel on their shoulder. If so, I’ve been cheated. All I have is a prison warden and an escape artist. A conformist and a revolutionary. And I am stuck in-between.

I’m neither one or the other. I am both and none. I don’t know what to make of myself. No one knows what to make of me either. I am stranded, alone, in a repeating battle.

I have mastered time travel.

Not for me, for I have to remain in my current time stream to run the mechanics of the machine, but for others. I have the ability to pluck someone from the past into my present or place someone from my present into my future. The subject need not be cooperative during my machinations or knowledgeable of my intent; the subject need only be.

Now for the morally complex. I wish to have one more child before menopause. My husband does not. He was not always this way. Thirty years ago, during his 18 to 80, deaf, dumb, and crazy phase, he would have engaged in any such activity resulting in procreation. That is the reason we raised six children in four years (two sets of twins). For his enthusiasm during my requests, during this time, I am grateful. However, today, his lackluster exuberance leaves me desperate.

I want one more child and I want him to be the father.

So, I have plucked my Mr. Right, circa 1993 to be Mr. Right now, circa 2023. I chose him from 1993 because our six children would have already been born. I chose 1993 because he is an unemployed child-raising genius and I still am a successful stockbroker. I could use a bit of his esprit de corps should I have my plan fulfilled and conscious appeased. I chose 1993, because once he does arrive, I will want to keep him over the current 2023 model.

I have a time machine, soon a seventh child from an adulterous? affair with my husband without my husband’s knowledge? in a bigamous relationship? that robs my older husband of his rightful past as my younger husband? all for the selfishness of my desire to do so because I can do so.

I speak only of can “do so” with certainty and not should “do so” with any modicum of moral authority.

Thus, I have resolved to retrieve Mr. 1993 to live with a woman (me) who was 2 years his junior and now will be 28 years his senior. Should Mr. 2023 complain I can always send him to 2053 to reside with that same woman (me) who will still be 28 years his senior.

By 2053, I might have a reasonable explanation for my actions.