23
He will do it—make
rivers, rushing wet things, springs,
all things new, and I will
sing about it: Pocahontas, Riverbend
shit. Again. Rain-dancing in
ivy-covered driveways, dry
days shouldn’t happen when you
actually pray. But the almosts wane—they
never wax full like the sink with dishes
when no one else is around to do them.
18
I’m going home to my
people. He met me on the corner
of Wedgewood and 15th, said
don’t get comfortable here, said
waymaker, said gets better, said
Genesis and 31st. Nashville will
will still be rain and brown leaves
and pancake syrup and here.
24
She’s doing it again—making
memories, bad dreams, flashbacks,
expensive conversation topics, and I will
watch from the corner of my ceiling:
guardian angel shit, dissociated.
5
They ask me to demonstrate, violate her
with my fingers, Raggedy Ann, exhibit
A; no one believes her either.
11
I didn’t do it—take
my clothes off for her, unmask. Ask
me, and I will tell you about the believe
we made, pretend played, princess
shit, charades. Again. In the mirror box you
gifted, made, said I’ll get my camera, said
I’m busy, said have fun, said how come
your face is red. But tonight you’ll be
bedside, praying down angels to watch
over my sleep. Them you believe.
2
Funny baby. Me do it. Let me hold
you. I already knew I’d have to carry you.
26
I will do it—make
meaning, start over, deconstruct dogma:
no god, allah, pasta, and I will say
I’m coming home. Again. Say born
this way, say she didn’t make me
gay, say I know who I am: Moana,
Te Fiti shit. Goddess, witch, moon-
maker like everything is full now, like
it was never a phase, like no one made
me. I choose this. Me do it.
28
I made an ocean where a river used
to be, and the waves carry me, weightless,
home to myself. Again.