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He was alone out here about two miles from his cabin, his Dad’s cabin, when the thought first hit him; that he hadn’t locked the door. He patted his cargo pants and felt the key on his left side but didn’t remember actually doing it.  He stood on the front step to examine the window before his hike. The hole was covered with duct tape that he had criss crossed into a new flimsy pane.
“This will have to last until Monday, “ he said aloud to himself
Standing on the front porch, he could see the holes where he didn’t affix the pieces together correctly; pin-sized and almost tiny but not, and enough for air to freely flow back and forth. Every time a breeze blew he felt it. It was Saturday afternoon. He had two more days before he was leaving.
“This can wait until Monday.”
Looking at it only a few seconds longer, he nodded to himself to affirm and began walking west towards the boulder with the blue paint mark. It was warm enough. There may be another sudden gust this weekend. There may be more windows to patch depending on the direction of the storm. For now, all was still. He heard a couple crow calls earlier, around eight am, and then nothing. There was no wind or sound or movement in the woods.The cabin stood at the edge of the lake in the middle of a trail, not the mouth of the hike. Because he only hiked when he visited the cabin, Milo was always forced to start with The Blue Trail. If he was feeling up to it, he would cut north and wander the three miles through the Red Trail and decide later if he was game for the Black Trail. He was tired and hadn’t slept well because of the shattered window at 1:00 am so he doubted he would make it there. He never ruled it out though. The Black Trail was a beautiful hike through the middle of the forest. In the summer, it was lush and colored by unidentified evergreens, pines, full blue spruces, oaks, and fir. In summer, it was littered with people and birds: sparrows, blue jays, cardinals, finches, hawks, owls, the occasional eagle,  and tons and tons of goldfinches. Milo loved birds. He loved listening to them during his days at the cabin with his dad.
“Look!” He would nudge his father every time they saw a cardinal. “Look!”
Cardinal,” his father said.
Milo would nod. His father would walk in front of him.
“And what’s the black and white bird and the long tail that sang to us this morning?”
            Milo would look sheepishly at his shoes.
“Magpie.”
“Good son,” he would say without turning around.
There were other animals; deer, beavers, frogs at the edge of the lake, turtles on the logs. Sometimes he would feed the squirrels old popcorn. He would pass chipmunks, the occasional fox, and even the occasional coyote. He heard that wolves sometimes roamed the perimeter but he never saw any. In winter, that’s when he usually took the time to visit, everyone abandoned the area and all animals moved south to eat or north to hibernate. In fall, they began the migration. It was lonely and Milo decided to catch the last of them this year. He had reserved the cabin every January since his dad died five years ago. Usually holing up with Bourbon and weed or, on his wilder years, acid or shrooms or even cocaine, he would begin to go through old letters slowly developing a manic need to fly through the forest at night.  Watching himself tread the snow-covered floor, he wanted the sound of the morning birds: the magpies and the sparrows, the coffee maker, his father’s cough from the living room, the shower starting. Last year, he sobbed on the frozen lake willing it to crack. He cherished the couple of spiders nesting in the corners of his bedroom. He was completely alone again and spent hours rehearsing one of his father’s old plays with them, pretending they were an audience. Pretending he wasn’t alone.
This year he came in fall, tried to grieve in sunlight. Find all the magpies. Find the last herd of deer. Feed any animal, even raccoon, that would pass him. This weekend was remarkably warm but caught in the center of a wild storm. The wind had shattered one of his windows the night before. Today, sparkly and sunny. Last night, heavy gusts kept him up all night. He had paid attention to the weather reports and knew the storm was coming back: heavy rain, wind, lightning but this was the only weekend free.
“I should have fucking patched the window.’
He took a sip of water from the bottle in his right pocket and then paused. About two miles in and past the tree he always noticed; the one with the X carved neatly into it from some bored kid or illegal hunter’s buck knife, he  paused. Suddenly not remembering if he locked the front door, he was overcome with a sensation; something unfamiliar, the sensation, and a thought pattern he had never had to soothe before. It started at the bottom of his spine and traveled upwards through his shoulders. A sharp squall hit his back and he turned around but all he could see were trees. When he turned around, he felt no breeze and saw only brown trunks and white ground. The cabin was out of sight and it would him take him too long to circle back, yet he stood there, frozen, waiting for the door to answer. He thought to himself: I didn’t lock the door and the thought reverberated.  It seemed strange to even question it but he was used to coming in winter when no one else was here. He hadn’t hear or seen anyone else was here.  I own nothing of value. The cabin had a typewriter, a flashlight, some snacks. The thought lingered.No, it wasn’t that passive. It wasn’t lightly on his mind; it was gripping his mind. He felt anxious. He patted his pocket to feel for his key.  I must have, he thought. He turned back around to face the X.
“I must have.”
Yet, he couldn’t remember doing it; actually taking the key out of his pocket and turning the lock, checking to make sure that the door was locked. Milo stood silently on the trail and thought about it. He remembered standing on the front porch to examine his window. He remembered taking the bottle of water out of his pocket to drink. He remembered walking towards the boulder. He did not remember locking his door.  Milo waited another few seconds for something to interrupt: a rogue squirrel or light breeze or late morning dew drop from a branch. Nothing shook him. He held the key in his pocket and stared at the X. Let it go.  A crow called in the distance.  It must be noon, he thought. Let it go.
It was October thirtieth, 12:02 pm, and seventy-seven degrees outside when he heard the first cry.

“Violence, even well intentioned, always rebounds upon oneself.”

“I love the ones who suffer, and

they love me.

They love to see me sitting on their

nice Italian furniture, and they love

to see me cry.”

Marisol turned to look at Jack then David. She smiled big and clapped her hands back at the woman.
“You don’t know all of our names! I was gonna say we haven’t even introduced ourselves.” She pointed to Lilian first, then went around the circle. “Lil. Davey. Jack and me, Marisol,” she ended with her thumb pointing back at her chest and bright.
Marisol had sparkling white teeth and smiled often. She also had big almond eyes outlined in black so she had an Egyptian oligarchy air about her. When she walked, it was on tiptoes, sort of bouncing. When she spoke, she gestured to the air a lot. The two women sat directly across from each other. When she bent over, the stranger could see Marisol’s cleavage. The stranger made no attempt to engage with her flirtations nor did she try to understand them.   Holding her goblet protectively, the stranger did not bear her teeth even once. When she smiled, it was close-lipped. She didn’t lean forward or blink or take a sip or show any change in expression. She had the room’s full attention including Lilian’s who, for the most part, remained detached from the group. Not slightly, but overtly. Without anyone noticing, she had even slid her armchair back a couple feet, closer to the island, away from them. She sat tall and willowy, about 5” 10’ shoes off. She was thin with long, fine dirty blonde hair and nothing remarkable about her save her eyes. They were bright emerald green and glinted with each sidelong glance. Almost like she was staring at a ring light, they had a little circular glow around her irises. Or at least that’s what the woman saw when she looked at her. She wore no makeup, had a bit of a pallor and was wearing a plain gray fleece, jeans and white socks. She was average looking by objective standards and in outfit, though, the stranger felt her presence stronger than Marisol’s who was objectively stunning, commanding and used to being the center of attention.
Lilian’s green eyes bored like little shooting spikes. She had stopped knitting and was waiting like the rest of them but held eye contact. The stranger paused to take her in all the way.  David was staring at Lilian staring at the woman. Jack stared at Marisol whose mouth was ajar, also staring at the woman. We don’t know her name. Holding her chalice in front of her like a shield, the stranger began darting her eyes back and forth between the four.
“You get one question between stories.”
They all nodded in unison except Lilian who resumed, almost automatronically, with her work.  Picking up her forest green quarter scarf, the needles returned to their metronomic dance, tapping together in rhythm like a clock setting the soundtrack to the room.
“I heard them say that the following morning as I waited for my special consult. I was excited for the consult and this new shiny name. Sadia Smith,” she repeated, jumping back into the story immediately and looking back at Marisol.
Marisol’s eyes were wide but she said nothing. The couple on the couch leaned forward. Lilian’s needles tapped and she didn’t look up again. David felt his shin wet and looked at the blood on his finger, suddenly enthralled with the tiny red dot as the walls began to make way for trees.
“They had tucked me in a room with an older white woman who screamed randomly in the night. She didn’t scream all night, just whenever the urge came over her at unpredictable intervals.  I felt I deserved that. I liked that I couldn’t sleep.”
David liked that he couldn’t sleep. That he wouldn’t sleep.
“The next morning a very warm and fuzzy glow masked my eyes as I walked the unit avoiding drinking water, avoiding breakfast, avoiding camraderie. Me, with my freshly shaved head,’” she gestured to her hood, “and blue gown and the word “courage” written in permanent marker on my skull.” The stranger leaned forward eyeing David. “I wanted to see if it would make a good tattoo, and avoiding everyone. I felt giant honestly. I felt like laughing in their faces. Sure, I’m thirsty. Who isn’t?” She shrugged.
Who isn’t thirsty, David thought, not grasping a single thing that was happening as the walls began to turn into the lake. He took a sip of water and watched a pine tree grow from the lamp in her table. Who isn’t brave and giant? He took a large gulp and felt the word Clark had written on his hand that night in the warehouse: seamless.
“Everything becomes seamless.”
“The previous evening was mostly blur. I had arrived unrested, unkempt and dehydrated, not to mention completely apathetic to the presence of everyone around me. The fluorescent lighting didn’t help. It felt like day but how long had I been in the ER? They gave me an IV of water, took my vitals, made me answer questions.
“When was the last time you ate?”
And the pause between the question and the answer alarmed them.
“I didn’t eat today actually.”
David was sitting back in the tree peeling an orange watching everyone watch her. Except Lilian. My girlfriend is knitting the murderer a scarf, he thought and laughed in the tree, looking at the lake. The howl still far away but getting closer.  Licking the citrus from his fingers and taking a deep breath, he cocked his head back and began to scream back.

this next section is called LMAO

“My face was bare and so was my head. I’ll interject to admit I could have been a little dramatic about  the heat but I felt like I was peering into the center of the sun and so did my skin. My forehead and face were streaked with sweat. Walking for miles, my knees hurt and my legs hurt. My back hurt and I was tired. Not just tired, but consumed, oddly barren but so heavy and so hot.  I carried nothing in my hand. I hadn’t drank anything for hours. Obsessed with the way my mouth felt, I was constantly opening and closing it, feeling how dry my tongue was against the roof. Opening and shutting my jaw to hear the click, to see how much I could open it, to feel it tense and lock near shut. Rubbing it with my hand, sort of humming, cajoling it to open, it was on the verge of close without my input. When I arrived at the hospital, I was on the verge of collapse anyway so the entire process went faster.
My knees buckled from over exertion and anxiety when I walked in. I could barely stand so the attendings swarmed me to help. They brought me water and that’s when I spoke, for the first time to anyone all day.
“I can’t. I’ll choke.”
I fainted. I was so proud of my body for fainting.  I can’t lie. I feel the constant need to confess so I had walked for miles until I fainted. They tried to ask my name. I whispered and they repeated back: Sadia? I could only nod. When someone has no ID, they use Doe or Smith as a last name to keep everyone separate. I was Sadia Smith. I was admitted to Pennsylvania Presbyterian Hospital for severe dehydration and exhaustion and later admitted to Presbyterian’s acute psychiatric unit for a dissociative fugue. The name on my file said Sadia Smith. “Manic. Possibly psychotic.”
“Wait,” Marisol held her hands out.
“No, you can only ask one question in between stories.”
Her counter was sharper than Marisol’s interjection. David grinned again. A robustness. I knew it. The flames had leapt from her shoulders to head to Marisol. I knew it. She’s the howler.

“And you will know the difference between the two?”
“The difference between a truth and a lie?” he asked to clarify.
“No,” she said. “The difference between how I got here and the weirdest thing about me.”

Part 3: The Act of Taming Things

“Being born again and again has ripped your smile into pieces.”

–Adrienne Rich

Saturday, and the sun is out:
you lick the salt from the crest
on the underside of my elbow
and ask
where I would like to live
next.

“throat pt 2.”

I value freedom most.
value the ephemeral in
our lives while also walking
tall, three inches taller than I am,
always on tiptoe
sort of dancing
sort of twirling and
touching things,
making threats in the air
when angered and
you say I am

for-mi-da-ble,
          a bit virulent
is how you say it and
before we seek the advantageousness
of everything, it’s Friday
and we are
processing hard truths.
tell me,
where do you keep
your pocketknife?

 life is rushing and swamps
with its shades of
blue; azure
  (you name things)
sky, or cobalt fluid
or nightmare
like a wall of nail polish
you’re reading every
dressed up inch of you.
your rehearsed malignance.
your cocked smile.

the moon moves
from womb
to waste
to task those
unsewn wounds
and you embrace things now
with reticence
but you’re open to the epitaph
scrawled across the rock hard
eyelid
temperance,
you made him carve across
your eyelids that night
on Jupiter:
I remember everything.

but you didn’t ask for anything
else.
you just opened a door
and walked in.

“throat”