“everything takes form, even infinity”
—Gaston Bachelard, from
The Dialectics of Outside and Inside

So I died. Then I filled out a form.
It asked how I made do & a living
& where did I perform
my rotations? “We will inform
the living of your current
address,” said the form. “Here. Wear
this paper gown.” I peered
inside. I formed an opinion
of my torso, which was as I’d left it—
too solid from living large.
But I’ve left out a vital
detail: I lived
in the form of a young
woman once, like a formal gown
adorned in sequence. I was adored
& worn, in a fit
of pheromonal forms, in
& out & in. Left
for dead, I led existence on.
Time wore on. Time warred
on. A police officer
informed my father
of his cardiac arrest, warned me
I was next. The officer’s speech
was so formal I fell
into a love. We married. We exchanged
speech & touch. Formerly,
we’d said we’d
never. Then we reformed.
If not for the police, I’d have never
worn white. If not for the lice,
I’d have never left
my hair on my father’s grave.