& The Dirt

Out the window, Alabama feels nothing
like home except the apartment

next door yells at the same woman
in the same man’s voice & I wonder how

many men will move through my body,
swear loveas wordas fist

as in I’m scared
not by how much I need,

but by how much I’m prepared
to wreck to make it

known – bright vacuum of stars,
the window, open, open.

Once, I became a house,

crawled inside through a man’s
bedroom; a stray

nail picked my stomach

when I told him, he lifted
my shirt, traced the sly

cut on my abdomen,
said, So it was you,

the blood on my sheets?
I would let him take me

to a valley filled with poppies
offering their thin necks

inside the shadow of a mountain.
& it’s true: I felt

destination when he pinned one
arm behind my back, the other

spinning, my body a compass, until
he wreathed the stems of my fingers

around his cock & I want
to say I am not ashamed

for loving the flowers
stuffed into my mouth

& the dirt,

that this is not another goddamn prayer
for the silences I carry,

or the woman, the air
between us cool & sweet

like six white apples,
or some chance of early rain,

the voice next door

I’ve come to fear as my own.

Quick Change

There is body in the coat closet in the hall by the front door, body under the bed in plastic bins, a pile in the garage by the recycling bin.

I Own My Sexuality

i’m a cavern are you sick of
hearing bout my poor sweet cunt
shall i find another lexicon for my claw
shaped want