Mellon enters uninvited and ties me in chains.
Warning me to be quiet, she makes my arms and legs twitch
at her will, an epileptic Pinocchio unable to lie.
She takes my breath away in public spaces and sends
me scurrying backwards towards entrances.
When everyone is sleeping
she sits on my chest, hooks a projector screen to my brain, pins my eyelids
open with clothes pins, and plays my life backwards on the wall,
images moving faster than my eyes
can see, allowing me only to feel everything at once-
the pure bliss of your breath, your smell of salt and vinegar chips, the roughness
of your palms and then the sudden flip flop of film that has ended,
blackness on the wall taking it all away
I weep, I convulse, I crawl to the bathroom,
I bark, and lock the doors in front of and behind me.
Mellon wraps her airy arms around me and we watch the swarm together: tightly wrapped in cling film
hurrying to work, interpreting art, laboring over words, planning retirement packages, fretting over children’s homework
while Melon and I giggle, two children playing hide and seek.
We crawl through the house on hands and knees, sucking in dust molecules, color coding clothes closets,
arranging books on shelves by topics, and lifting pasta piece by piece out of boiling water.
I dodge behind a dust docked dryer to reunite lost socks, for
Mellon Coelho says socks and books and pasta and people
are all the same