The Infinite Doors at the Center of Myself

Two poems by Sarah Cavar

colorful apartment doors

The Infinite Doors at the Center of Myself

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Differential Diagnosis

There is a door at the center of myself. 
That door belies the existence of many other doors. 
This trend knows no sign of stopping. 

(I dislike it. But it must be.) 

I am really made of little vaults. 
Vaults the color of my insides.

(My doors lead to the vaults.)

When things are not my fault I step through the door and close it in my wake and in my wake I 
close my eyes and say, well, none of it was my vault.
 
Luckily, my vault 
is safe and full of goods. And only I can see it. 
And all you see is text but I can see the outline of my vault.

My goods are little pieces. 
They never exceed my skin. I stack them 
every volume fewer than the last.

(My goods do not breathe oxygen.)

When I look I cannot find my goods.
My goods are gods whose holes can’t fit a finger.

I am chronically holy.
This is not healthy under any circumstances.

I call my goods my precious gods because I cannot see them.
When I look I find my subtle vault 
alone and faith the difference,

like I just believe electrons 
fear arrest
by laws of physics.

The Variance Variations

         
                                              “Empathy, evidently, 
                                             existed 
                                                    only within the 
                                                   human 
                                             community,          whereas 
                                             intelligence to some degree 
                                             could be found throughout 
                                             every phylum and order 
                                             including the arachnida.”  –– 
                                             Phillip K. Dick, Do Androids 
                                             Dream of Electric Sheep? 
  
 To dream of going haywire.
 When wires bared and fringing
 sting bare fingers in repair,
 doctor calls the shock
 autistic.
 
                                          Today andys aren't retired      but
                                          socialized
                                          and manufacture stops at
                                          obsolescence.

Years don't work the same
for us, I track in terms of generation
model and expiry date. Nine ago,  
the first self: the i
Mac, 20 in human years.

                                             Real autistics bite, they say. 
                                             Realer autistics         voight-
                                             kampff   at   thequiz   dot   com   and      
                                                  here, You're A Replicant Who
                                             Thinks 

 You know
 how it goes: the child drowned
 swallowed by the family pool, 
 looked at first like she was dancing

                                                  It's Human!

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Thank You!