Where were you when you first learned that
you cannot lack the things that break you
most? I am only writing in red for the rest of the
year and giggling at the frontlines. As a teen-
ager in the shallow spurt of water, a man told me
I can only move so long as I drown, which is
to say, so long as I lay in a bed of foaming spittle. If the
house remains fed, the altar’s glimmer dulls.
I think I’ve lost the practiced falseness of what it means
to be impossibly young. The fingernail moon
hangs over the welt on my goosepimpled thigh. Where
does the world go when not inside me?
If anything, all things remain suggestive of
desire in context. I’ve got the human
endeavor now, the shadow settled into stone,
spliff waiting to be ladled into a mouth
too fictionalized to open. How often we stuttered
those memories of teeth smacking against
watermelon, calling it love when all it was was a
lack of imagination. I dream a dream and
it has nothing to do with the god setting the gauntlet
down between my legs. There’s a formality
to the gap in my bottom teeth. Look closer.
See that? How it’s sometimes me, but mostly you?
Come here, little grace of mine. It seems the sunlight
has begun to pare those thickets of skin the
likeness of cherries. I mean, let me see you whiling away.
Let me see you good.