saying, “this may be my fault, but it’s still

your story.”

A fear of sleep is a fear of losing control.

In my hometown, there was a girl up the street

that knew every part of you is a mouth—

“Look at you! How open you are.

Your body can only say, ‘yes’ to me.

Look how your fight forgot you.”

I can never land a punch in my dreams.

Never rip my attacker apart nail by nail and see

how helpless that house was. I’m not a fair fight.

I don’t know a lot of words. I don’t know

how to say “I slept with every man after you

and woke up on fire.” I don’t know how to say

“Everyone in my dreams is borne of you.”

I don’t know how to say “You cannot have me.

Not now. Not again.”

“Do not sleep by yourself. There must be

some part of you that don’t trust the rest

of you. Find someone who don’t

wanna gouge out her eyes to make sense

of the dark.” This was never about finding a savior

to share the bed with. I am not lonely.

I am not the weak calling my sickness

the tyranny. What I fear is what I can’t hold.

What I would win the world for.

brown girl alien

You have no idea

how bad I want a 16-wheeler

right now. A blue raspberry Slurpee

in left hand and one-o-dem trucker hats

that says “John Deer” or some

such fiction, maybe a pair-a overalls—

that might be too much.

But the sentiment is strong,

like Bourbon-stink. Gosh,

how delicious the Midwest sounds,

like a fat watermelon in August.

I wanna drive past stacks of nothings—

tumbleweed nothings, crab grass nothings,

cactus nothings, sand nothings. Nah,

I don’t want the Midwest after all.

I want the I-90 to the Joshua Trees.

Maybe a vulture-picked carcass to stare at.

I wonder, when the aliens dig up all our sacred,

will they be as confused as I am now?

Will their questions be my questions?

What animals were these? The kind

careful enough to preserve the body

of their beloved or the kind selfish enough

to play dress up with their dead?

Or the kind sad enough to say,

“shit, what’s this road for if you’re under it?”

And I’d drive on miles of I-don’t-know-

what-naturally-grows-here-but-if-I-keep-

moving-maybe-I’ll-forget-how-I’m-gonna-

lose-you-one-day-no-wait-look-at-the-air-

(a gravity nothing)-look—

look at it go.

my mouth

a cavity of red.

a handful of yes.

a mother, but not quite.

the pit, not the core.

sex, surely. something

I got from my mama.

a mama, absolute. light

as muscle. honey as instrument.

faith’s internment. sin as verb.

a womb littered with teeth. collateral

for sound. the inside of lamplight.

a 60-watt bulb, stained. a fistful of belt,

rusting. dirty as a street corner.

dirty as blood. dirty as memory.

something you grow out of. into.

a wound laced with noise. Luther Vandross

on repeat. the sun’s attempt at skeleton.

a domesticated violence. a handcuffed ocean.