I remembered the anemone: its name, the way that its syllables decay in your mouth. They're not like the seeds you found in a passerine's beak, the beak of a nuthatch, for example, pickled and stored in a jar that weeps and weeps through the label, that sat on a shelf among rows and rows of similar vessels, each bearing birds or actors to term. The best I can do is delay the exact moment it slips and is smashed into pieces on asphalt. The jar's pretty heavy, and my hands are incoherent.
The girl at the desk must've thought we're a couple, so she comped us the double at no extra cost. I named her Olivia and crawled in her beak, where I curled up to muffle the syllables. She was a bird, or a mollusc, but I can't quite remember. I do remember pressing my flesh into curls, which were boneless or brittle, but I can't remember. Someone must remember pushing against the lid from below, alveoli locked by the rubber and the ring. My hands, at this time, were still weeping, so the glass and the metal were wet. Back in Spanish, Ontario, just off of Lake Huron, at the lot where they comped us the double.
I'm able to sleep without falling. My feet end in wires that twist around branches and keep me in place until New Year's. But you know sleep is coming, anemone. The first day you bled you were certain. The first day you braided your hair. Sleep is not a jar. Sleep is the enemy's well-threaded ring.