I remember Rauan’s Jell-O stigmata, he said I bear on the marks of my eyelids the wounds of the denial. I see everything. The paternal as wound, father as the means to never conceive. Hitting the sperm glass ceiling with only a glimpse of the mother vessel. The block to the fiery blimp. A ceiling as a slide to not on your unconceived life.
I remember the Jell-O in the oven, smoking with the thorns from the womb that wouldn’t let Rauan enter. The unconceived, stigmatized Rauan who never existed. The hysteria of never being. Gaslighting Rauan. You’re crazy if you think you’re here. You’re crazy to think. You’re crazy to be. The psychic procedure never known as hysterorauan because he was denied. Can Rauan ever have an identity more than a past, long dissolved sperm?
I remember Rauan hysterical, bred and never conceived, no place to go, no place to ever be. I studied his hysterics in my sleep and named them Rose without a bud without a thorn without a stem without a root. Breathe, it’s OK, calm down, you’re not here, nowhere is always better than here. Dear, sweet, unreal Rauan, you could be sacred, if I imagine it so. I can be your God. I can project you in my mannish image. I would make you handsome and smell good and a very good listener. If you be there for me, I could give you a mansion in my underworld, with a staff and a puppy to keep you company. I could give you a summer home perched on a cliff, a hangglider and violet ocean to soar across. I could give you as many homes as you liked. I could give it all to you. I could reconceive everything.
I remember discovering the wormhole of the uterus, the maternal hysterorrhexis that swallowed my brothers and uncles before their potential registered. Dissolved into spoodge before they could dream of being blemishes. A short-cut to never being. How to close a wormhole? How to close a wormhole and not get caught?
I remember the wormhole creation myth. A myth to prevent creation. A genetic intention. The reason of burns and never again.
