what it feels like:
black bitch grasping for
both my calves.
stomach bile bubbling in the
cauldron, spitting up vodka
and half-digested pills.
this is the thrill?
I was walking on two feet twelve
hours ago, laughing and absorbing
September sun on my face.
now I am crawling like
this place no longer welcomes me
with open arms
she cracks her jawbone in my eyes.
tottering on a child’s set
of bipolar la-lee-da.
I bet if you were to crack open
my egg-y brain you’d see the
walnut fissures my father gave to me.
folding up like a shoebox
I’m wondering if the man’s hum
is a television commercial or if I’m
hey, I’m not dying, okay?
my fucking brain is sizzling
but I still feel like clutching on to you
and kissing you
and loving you.
this part isn’t going to last.
it’s a fucked-up thread
hanging out from my sweater sleeve,
I’m not going
to let the whole sweater unravel.
(not this time, I’m done doing that)
this is the sweater you helped me knit.
it gets cold in October.
I have to keep you warm, too.