Now I praise the distance they keep, the wisdom/ beneath
Georgia holds me like a rip. The trail flows over peaks, slumped and the same, and I rise and fall unendingly, groped by nettle, goldenseal, laurel, and rue. I awake each morning to a mucus sheen
I realized I’ve started to write “him” instead of “it.” This is natural, isn’t it? to give personhood to the things we want to love us.
His fingers pressed deep/ into my windpipe. What I knew of blue exploded.
If I wanted, I could suck it in like an egg, intact, a blank round thing plummeted into me to incubate.
From every poison can be pruned a lesson, worth its gilded frame and place above a cradle.
sometimes I feel I could / apologize forever for everything / and never feel fulfilled by my shame
and/ in the reflection, my hair is long, and/ in the reflection, my beard is to my chest.
the sweet things about her /
being alive: lemon berry shortbread /
and the backs of knees, raw dates, /
the thickest of milk and rage.
I am spread/ legs / two waves
How / electrified I felt when he brought / two fists to my face listen
A boat. A dock. The moon, too close. Subterranean cafeterias. 14th street. Bodegas. I don’t dream about the psych ward.