Count Me Among the Almonds

“Make me bitter. / Count me among the almonds.” — Paul Celan, “Count the Almonds,”

THIS MUCH I KNOW: I WORE A SPOON TO THE GHOST RETREAT. I HAD HANDS. 3 FINGERS. MY LOVER CARRIED AROUND THE REST IN HER MOUTH LIKE A WILD KANGAROO. THE GHOST RETREAT WAS IN MISSOULA, MONTANA. THEY HAD HORSES THERE AND I WANTED TO PET ONE. MY LOVER TOOK MY 3 FINGERS—THE ONLY ONES I OWN IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD, THIS LITTLE PATCH OF GRASS FROM CALIFORNIA TO NEW ZEALAND TO MICHIGAN ON WHICH I AM EVEN LOVED OCCASIONALLY—AND PUT THEM IN HER MOUTH FOR SAFEKEEPING. I BEGGED FOR THEIR RETURN. I SAID give them back I SAID i have been walking for years with no teeth no arms these fingers are the only things i own in this world SHE SAID i want to abolish private property I SAID this is personal SHE SAID you have never loved me i wore a dress with no teeth i stuck knives in my eyes my arms have their skin hanging from the bones like a gardener’s glove i came to see you in california with a comb i put my arms out i held my teeth like a buzzard i came to see you in michigan i brought you a silver flask i said take the fox out of your ears i came to see you in new zealand i was naked barefoot i loved you more than occasionally i said i will take what you have i will take what you are dying from every sickness every ill it is mine now i will love you in health you will shun me in the sickness i have taken from you i will spend the rest of my life i will