QUIET LESION
It’s not a choice
What we do in sleep
Mercy killing
3:06 a sprout
of yellow crowding
the person you
don’t love an emptying
of thought can’t get to it all
in one session how do you
like it on top or from
wrist pressed flat
your snow of tongue
forgot
to shave my legs
today less air pressure
in my job search
more realism
in my twelve dollar
milkshake my glut
money spends better
than if I aged my skin
with labor I age
my skin with labor
every day
new death certificates
print monday
on my throat
remorse tastes
like fennel I imagine
the bottom of my love
returns each morning
with the toast some
choices I make
serenity blend
plus honey wait
for the flavor
center my hips
for the work
identity depends upon
health benefits
burn the death in
non-working fireplace
but the smoke only
makes me tar full
a beautiful little dark
my tea / my ritual
this movement in my chest
reminds me
(getting older only means you like other people / less)
a track pad developed
for my particular pressure
sensory details
I trace
the google map
of how
I got here weight
in my belly says
I am a woman now
there is nothing you can steal
from me above the fridge
containers with possible
use someday a hand searching
my skirt for follicles
leftovers: another box
inside there sits a threat of odor
in this cab ride growing
older as the fare does
it’s a little magic trick
I can be as bad as him
just don’t tell me how
beautiful I am today or
stop me while crossing
the street I’ve got this
I can be just as bad
alone in the backseat
afternoon shut inside
the lover taken against
a wall / mauve flowers
liter box of wine holding
myself against a stranger
on the Q pole between us
velocity of coming
to a halt
don’t tell me
this isn’t a bedroom
I have eyes don’t I
have a mouth
so things are pretty
much the same
only this body
of water is dying
or is dead already
a constant
drip to the flood
letting you rush
a part of me
I’ve never fully owned