In another dimension, it is me & not Dostoevsky
who claims 2-plus-2 can equal 5.
I have pressed TV rewind enough times
to see how toothpaste can slide right back into the tube
after dissolving across teeth & draining into the sink.
The vomit gurgitates itself back into a glass of kegged beer.
I have seen blood pour itself back into the vein, from wine.
& who is to say that after her father laid himself to rest
under the commuter train that he didn’t lift his body
back into another world
where we are still twelve years old
at Fenway Park. At the seventh inning stretch,
he holds both a beer, & a camera
to capture our sweet Caroline smiles.
O, ode to the Jeremy Bearimy!
To be a dot in the I
& repeat that one life
forever and without time.
A place where nothing never happens.
I mean, if Leo himself can climb through a dream
inside a dream, then why not me?
There could be a galaxy in which I’m seen.
In which my body was never taken away from me.
A world in which I can spot love
3 trillion miles away.
I can hold it in my palms:
a crystal ball of intimacy.
A life in which your death is only a death in flesh.
& when your bones crumble to ash, they will
sprout with the grass,
germinate with the morning dew.
Yes, you will be reborn in a different world –
you will arrive again, as you.
Lis Beasley (she/her) is a licensed mental health counselor. She was previously published in the Worcester Review. A lifelong writer, her poetry often explores the intersection of family, mental health, substance abuse, and incarceration. She can be found on Instagram @lisbeaspoetry.
