There are parts of me scattered everywhere. My feet were found in one Portland, my arms in another. I’m not the victim of some crazed slasher but rather my own undoing, like a tornado blasting a jigsaw puzzle. My thumbs turned up in Shreveport. My teeth, still a full set, thankfully, in Miami. Too many places, too many things, too willing to divide—I couldn’t keep it together.
For years I've felt, I’m falling apart. My heart not in San Francisco but Santa Fe. There’s word of my pancreas in Battle Creek. Hurry, I’m told, it’s about to be preserved in formaldehyde, shelved as a specimen alongside fetal pigs. I stumble across the map, recollecting myself one piece at a time. If you see a part unattached, please, hold onto it. I’m coming. I’ll be there soon.