My mother said she wished I would disappear.
Not die, because then she might carry it—
no, worse. She asked that I fade away
like a wisp of smoke, and become nothing.

Years pass, and still I try to grant her wish. 

Underneath a blanket of stars, I sit
and drink from a bottle to un-create myself. That
bitter liquid seeps through me. My beating heart 
carries it into my mind, dissolving memories.

You’ve surely seen it, reader—those on the street 
who stayed too long and lost themselves, became 
no one. Not dead, but gone. Still visible yet vanished.
Cold wind rustles through the trees and stings

my exposed cheeks. The park bench is hard,
empty. Insects chirp. Car headlights occasionally cut
through the darkness—drivers headed to a place they 
belong. What day is it now? Even time has left me.

I know only days and nights. The liquor warms 
my throat and chest. When I put a hand to my face, 
the face feels foreign. Rough whiskers, oily, overgrown 
hair, crusted dirt that flakes off at a touch.

With no one left, not even myself, I look up and say:
‘Stars, galaxies, universe, I ask only one thing of you.
Not to save me—I’m past that. I want you to let me glimpse
what it takes to believe with my soul, not my words.’

The world spins now, spins like the constellations 
swirling above my head. I fall backward and feel the earth, 
the soft grass, the dirt, moving beneath me. Pastels of
starlight blur, melting into a dream just as my eyes close.

Beyond all of this—me, you, matter, all of it—
there is so much more. I can only see it with 
my eyes closed, but it radiates truth.

David S. Anderson