- to say that I’m a woman, is a partial truth
you touch my thighs
eyes adjust to the darkness
if I didn’t feel broken, I wouldn’t lie beside you
I am asking about bodies
the fox in my chest and the moss down my throat
i.e. where do you keep yours?
2. At the beach nothing is complicated.You toss me into waves and slip your hands inside my bikini. Covered in salt. We share a bedroom, we’re in love, William is still alive and we don’t have to miss him. You’ll never get tired of my body, even when I do. All of our friends show up for dinner and we make music at night. Tobacco and beer and ice cream and dried mangos. I forget my underwear at the beach house and Rebecca brings it back for me the next week. Hesitantly. Let’s just say they aren’t exactly clean. Shakira’s got a new album out; I resolve to be more like her. To do more while you’re on the road.
3. to say that I’m a child, is still the truth
I forget to brush my teeth
I drink myself to sleep
chrysalis in the void of your parents’ basement
shimmering liquor swirling in a rocks glass
you play me, I play the
4. William dies and the beach is far away. I sort through books as the night goes cold. We all share a room at Josie’s parents’ house in Greensboro the night before the funeral. We sleep in the same bed under a foreign quilt listening to our friends breathe. I don’t actually sleep, but I know you do.The way you hold me in grief like I’m made of glass, the way your handprints tattooed themselves on my sunburn. I think of William with his ass in the air doing yoga, the tide creeping closer. I think of my mom’s funeral. Of William face down on the carpet.