The Space Between Pika and Chu

The Space Between Pika and Chu

self-portrait as that one scene from Pokémon: The First Movie

you know the one, where
pikachu slaps pikachu

in the face, both entirely
flowering with tears, as

one says pikachu, arms 
thrown back like a wishbone,

as the other says pikachu,
head heavy and lips

parted. it’s too easy to say
that i am the pikachu being

struck, that i am the way
they fall and roll like

a wound and stand to say,
pikachu, which means,

i am sorry you are capable
of hurting me. it’s too easy

to say that i am the one
doing the striking, that

i am the static between them,
or the sky above drawn by hand

and unbeautiful, as the striker says 
pika, the chu silent, to mean, i have nothing

left beneath my hands. the scene
tattooed on the place where

the crater of my childhood meets
the bloom of my childhood.

which reminds me of how you
can prevent your pokémon from

evolving, as the exit wound of light
expands, the music hearting

like a drum, the text box reading
What? or Huh? as if every trans

formation were the first, like
how i, as a child, studying in

the bathroom how many faces
my face could make, how many

meanings my body could have, as
the struck says chu, the pika

silent, to mean there is nothing left
beneath my hands. my hands

on my mouse, my face flattened by
the computer screen, as i cry

scrolling google images, having searched
“trans pikachu” and, yes, found her,

a heart taped to her tail, which is
not a metaphor, her mouth

open and the only word she knows
is her word, the word she is, which

means everything she means, her
pink tongue, and her right

paw pointing toward her tail,
her left holding it in front

of her, and my computer always
with its soft murmur, that

exhale of its labor, its warm body, 
which means nothing other than

i am working, i am 
working, i am working, i am

an object made to make
other objects, which is not

a metaphor, and the wall
behind me is blued by

the making, and through my
window, a thunderstorm reaches

its hands to the ground like
a metaphor and, of course,

the rain repeating the name
of the sky

[fig. 312 decoy] [fig. 313 decoy with wings]

after The American Boy’s Handy Book

Click to enlarge