Seeing Triple – Britt Ford

Britt Ford

I can see me standing in the middle of a metal rope stretched between the staggering red walls of a deep red canyon. But the camera in my eye is drunk—to the right, to the left, a half inch there, a half inch back, one eyelid closes, the other eye lid closes. One door closing, another opening.

I can see me and me and me.
Me right here at the edge.
Me in the middle, precariously torn between her own verticality and the long horizontal line in front of her.
And me on the other side, the me that’s cheering me on— She’s about to jump.

There’s a woman behind me crushing up dried rose petals, mixing them with hot water and sugar. She keeps calling me sweet baby. Every “b” bouncing off my back, a playful pat reminding me it might be all right.

It’s five in the morning and I’m making tea and I’ve got the shakes.
It’s five in the morning and there’s a man on the roof making snow angels.
It’s five in the morning and there’s man on the roof making snow angels and the snow is rapidly accumulating.
Sweet baby it might be alright.

But back to me and me and me.
It’s a fucking deluge. And I am no longer impressed with your lingering malaise, because the me on the other side is a thief, a winged bare-breasted harbinger and she’s about to jump off the fucking cliff.

The air is thick and hot; it’s not raining, it’s a fucking deluge, and we’re all screaming but we can’t hear each other.

For a moment I forgot. For a moment I could breathe. For a moment I saw your face and it was whole. For a moment I forgot.

There’s a man on the roof, he’s making snow angels but the snow is rapidly accumulating. He’s moving his arms and legs, trying to make wings, but he’s getting buried.
Sweet baby it might be all right.

I’m still watching myself in the middle. I’m still staggering, not me, the me in the middle—to the right, to the left, there, and back, one eye lid closes, one eye lid closes. Every door, every door, every single fucking door closes at once and it creates a gigantic gale of wind and the me in the middle, she’s flying, and the me on the other side, the winged, cheering, jeering, bitch—she’s diving.

It’s five in the morning and the men are yelling outside.
It’s five in the morning and I’ve got my forehead braced against the brick wall begging for solace.

Sweet baby it might be all right.

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