There are miles carved into my feet and some may call them calluses but I call them love affairs.
Alone, I sit inside these full-length/wide-angled scars.
A woman with a pierced tongue asks me how often I think about death and when I think about it, what thoughts arrive.
I think about pushing myself onto subway platforms and the stain I’d leave on 4 train dashboard.
I think about a stranger’s palm rubbed up against my spine and thrusting me toward the third rail.
I think about invisible diseases in my breasts, belly, wrists and forehead.
I wonder if, when I die, anyone will alert her of my self-inflicted execution.
Soon, I travel to another land I lived in with a woman. And I will bring enough poems to plaster over memories. I can spackle the sidewalks with sonnets and footnoted translations.
I will sleep in that park that houses dead people in its soil. Way down below. Beyond the seedings and tree trunks. I’ve heard their sobs.
I will dance inside a garden full of dandelion wishes and silently pray for sage to steam open my body. There will be a ritual. A creek. A cloaked philosopher wearing musical notes and patchworked bones.
I’m ready to let go now.
I’m ready for the aloneness felt from monologues.
I’m ready to move (away)
yummy. i’m looking forward to having you here.