When I see two Siamese cats,
bookends on the porch,
when I find two stoves boiling
spinach in the kitchen,
when I meet myself pulling weeds
out of the garden,
I know it must be Célia, and
she’s switched herself again.
At the start of her condition, it was
little more than polka dots at parties,
but soon she was shifting shape
by shape, and she hardly ever
matched our wedding photos.
We went to see a chameleonic
specialist, who mumbled his professional
opinion while he paced around his office—
It’s Célia’s imagination, I’m afraid.
She has too much by far, and now
it’s on the outside, when it should be
on the inside.
He recommended aspirin as placebos,
and gave her YouTube links to
reality yoga classes, to be
followed every day.
More reality and less imaginality,
that must be your slogan,
he muttered as he showed us out.
Now she’s on the mend, and the
other night we dined together—
two normal people seated at
a normal table, with candles
and matching spinach pies.
But today I feel off-color, a shade
of polished walnut with rococo
trimmings. Aspirin might be
difficult to swallow, and yoga
It seems imagination is
contagious. I would never
have imagined that.
I’m not sure the specialist actually said ‘imaginality.’ It was hard to hear.
droplets on pine needles
extended version, deleted scene
You know what I saw at sunset,
Célia? Wind riders on their
crêpe paper stallions, with their
wind dogs chasing behind.
She waved a forkful of spinach at me.
Now let’s not be silly, darling.