To convince experts you must whisper theophany and return.
You must not let them know the examination
was incomplete, that no one except
your dermatologist stared into your eyes
for a prolonged period while he levitated
forward off his pleather stool to brush
your broken capillaries with his thumbs.
Let the otherworldly journey sound
like a guided tour of the most ruptured
art museums. Make sure to include
the not-quite-uniformly light sky
and the sea hanging from the last twisted
wisteria vine. (It's a small sea--
the kind they send inconsequential
jewels to bathe in. Never mind
the hard water, the beds of kelp
that deter sharks and anyone who loathes
the texture of human hair.) Tangle yourself
in the aftermath: a sudden and arcane knowledge
of detritus, the fly sleeping quietly under your tongue,
and any message wound in the fortune cookies
of bedsheets that begins: Dear Sirs,
I lie in your fleecy underbelly until winter comes and I can cross the ocean on foot. Along the way, my kinsmen will care for me, as will any lone kayaker scooting his craft towards the sun. A woman traveling alone is a cause for vulnerable celebration. Her hair will declare her for miles.