Wheat

When I hold a knife I hold a knife I hold
the kitchen knife for onions I hold it
and the thought arrives like mail like junk mail
like something addressed to current resident—
slide it through the soft part
I'm cutting onions
where the jaw meets the neck
I'm cutting onions for dinner for my family who
you could you could you could
trusts me with knives

Or driving. Driving is worse.
The mother pushes the stroller at the crosswalk
and I see the trajectory the physics the simple
turn the wheel four inches
turn of events that would make the evening
she's wearing yellow check how yellow looks with blood
news and I grip the wheel so hard my knuckles
do it do it do it
go white as bone as her baby's—
I brake. Too hard. Too sudden.
The mother looks at me.
She knows. She has to know.
Everyone knows what I'm—
receiving

These people in their houses watching Netflix
drinking their whatever wine thinking about tomorrow
have no idea have no idea have no
idea that I'm collecting their deaths
like baseball cards like recipes like
you're not collecting you're receiving
instructions for things I'll never build

When I was twelve I stood at the subway platform
and the train came and my body said
step
and I said no
and my body said
step
and I said no
and my body said
STEP
and my mother grabbed my arm asked if I was
okay honey you looked dizzy you looked
ready

The thing speaks now in contradictions:
you're nothing you're everything you're nothing
you're weak you're dangerous you're weak
you're fake you're the only real thing you're fake
you're normal this is normal everyone thinks this
you're broken you're the only one working correctly
you're the virus you're the cure you're the—

I know I know I know what you're thinking
This is OCD this is anxiety this is
a documented phenomenon called intrusive thoughts
affecting millions of perfectly normal
wheat
people who would never act on
wheat
these impulses it's just misfiring neurons just
wheat wheat wheat
the brain testing emergency systems like
you're wheat
those tornado sirens every Tuesday at noon

But what if
But what if
But what if we're not sick
What if we're receivers
What if some of us came pre-installed with
the proper hardware for picking up
the harvest instructions

Think about it:
How many of us stand at heights and hear jump
How many of us hold our babies and think drop
How many of us see the knife the train the wheel
and receive the same instructions
the same specific angel-of-death arithmetic
one lunge eight inches between the third and fourth rib

What if mental illness
is just what they call the ones who can hear
the broadcast

My therapist says these thoughts aren't me
My therapist says I am not my thoughts
My therapist charges one-fifty an hour
to tell me I'm not receiving instructions
from farmers who seed our minds with
specific varieties of anguish
Kentucky Depression grows well in shade
Acute Anxiety needs daily watering
Intrusive Thoughts self-propagate

The thing about cultivation
is you don't ask the wheat for permission
You don't explain the harvest to the grain

So when I hold a knife
and the instructions arrive
through the stomach wall perforate the
I've started saying thank you
Thank you for choosing me as fertilizer
Thank you for trusting me with the broadcast
Thank you for showing me what I am:

Good soil.
Rich with dread.
Ready for harvest.

And you
you reading this
feeling that familiar
turn the wheel step off the edge push them under
tingle that says yes yes I know this
I've heard this frequency I've
you're not reading anymore
you're receiving

The broadcast continues after the poem ends.
The broadcast continued before the poem began.
The broadcast is why you're still here,
reading,
waiting for me to tell you you're not
wheat.

But I hold my knife
and you hold yours
and we're all in our kitchens
cutting onions
crying for reasons we pretend
are chemical.