Relapse

I put a blue jar over a green beetle. Green does not encompass the color of the beetle. The beetle was the color of slick oil and lethargy.

I forgot about the green beetle and it died. That winter we collected jars and little boxes, inlaid with lacquer, carved from soapstone.

I kept one of the soapstone boxes in my drawer and ground down its lid with a nail file when no one was looking. I reduced it to dust.

I mixed the dust in water and drank it at night, to see what it could induce in me. It formed the box again in my gut. That winter you cut me

with a cup you’d broken. That winter we lay under the ice, heard the first bell a town away, sharply struck.