When the two men at the cafe talk about driving,
they might as well be talking about love
for all I know of acceleration, yielding
before a sign you’ve learned to expect.
I never learned how to drive, so I never know where I am.
I’ve told men, “I love you,” but only when I meant,
“I’m drunk and need you to hold me
accountable for the stupid things I say.”
I’m trying to remember the first time I felt dumb.
I’m trying to remember why I answered the phone.
The first person to touch us is always a stranger;
years later, we’re taught that kind of touch is wrong.
Out of Order
I tear off small sheets of my skin
like pages from a calendar
I used to count the days out of order.
Everything here is broken;
everything that should move is fixed.
I remember everything you said
and most of what you didn’t,
like when a moth dies slowly
and fills the emptying space
surrounding it with wingspan
opening like a moth curling forever
into a flame curling inward.
My heart, my throat, my wrists
are hot air balloons mid-air and you
are mid-air, face-first in a lake.
I want to shatter the mason jar in my chest,
make a mosaic, call it “Half-full.”
I want to staple my face to a lamp post,
tell everyone I’m missing.
I want to get impregnated by the man in the moon,
so I can abort his only sun.
I want to commit suicide by blood donation.