Case Study: Nostrovia

Last night, a gin-soaked lime rind, a wine-rimmed cork from a French
vinyard, you’ve never been there, just tasted the fruits of another’s
labor, as always, as thy will be done, in the land of the lucky, the
first son. In your room, a leftover sock, a handful of bobbypins
scattered on the floor, not yours, but more on the table, one on the
dresser, they are everywhere once you start searching for them, they
are following you, like gnats.

In your garden, a ring buried under the geraniums, found perfect,
platinum, with a date stamped on the inside, a branding, an ownership,
a tiny thing covered with dirt, the same dirt smearing your hands as
you kneel and dig, claw at the curious shiny objects—it’s all
circuitous, you see, sickeningly so. In your dream, a set of wisdom
teeth coated in dried blood turned black as if by the sun, bullet
shells plucked from the sand, a track of grease blurred across the
skin but still, despite the smudging, retaining its chain’s shape, all
of these symbols pointing to terror, to heartbreak. You wake up,
notice the old skin flaked off from last year’s sun burn and an
ashtray full of fingernails. You gently stroke her long hair, braided
still, and darker, surprisingly, than the last time you touched it.
That woman, with old scars pocking her elbows, knees, the pointier
parts of her, the parts that stuck out just far enough to get caught,
over and over again, signifying all the things we’ve kissed, all the
things that caught us, like branches.

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