All I need’s a blank screen
& one fuckable font,
one I could go to bed with,
& a window in the woods
where my reflection blurs
the trees. Damn it, Donald Trump
is President. Thursday night
& I’m dancing in my room.
A housemate plays banjo down the hall.
We’re in the South, so our bodies loom large
like the trees. Sometimes I think I never left,
though I was gone one pirouette
around the sun. Long enough for the compost
to turn twice over, for the potato’s eyes
to gaze down. A year ago I headed west,
flung my arms open to the Pacific,
tossed my lead heart to the sea.
Now every time I touch myself in the dark,
I imagine heat to be the molasses
of our bodies. Sometimes I touch
my shadow on the wall & ride
my pillow straight into the sunset.