I imagine myself
dying of some
disease. A morbid thought,
I know. I tell my children,
one day I will be dust.
I think I can fly. They nod
their heads and laugh.
I stare at the birds hoping one day
I will reincarnate into one and migrate,
take flight. I want to leave this city
in the heavy winter and fly south. Meet
the other nomads and talk about
our body heat. I want to see him
naked, knocking him down
with his knack for knowledge
about my imperfections. I want
him to look past the words and
battery chargers, the truth, the
half-made up lies, the quick
good-byes. It is all a bunch of
fucking crap. I smile, falling into
his trap. I am the best actress you
have seen off-screen. The theater
is in my mind. The mirror is off
the wall in between the hooks
and family portraits you barely find. I want
every poem to be the worst one.
I wish the next one,
to shake his world, make him
think about why he leaves me
every day, why I expect every man
to be him. I want him to continue
hating everything he loved
about me. The way he saw the sea
through me, the crashing waves,
the all night raves. The days
pass slow, he wrote me in a letter,
you make think I have forgotten
all the masks you wore, but
I went to Venice too, I saw how you
were everywhere, in the art you can explore,
the pleated skirts, the Murano glass
in spurts. I have not thought about you,
I will not think about you, no matter
how many times you want me to.
I want to be you and you want to be
me. When I write a poem that
makes me physically sick, the kind
of poem you would share with no one
the kind, that even
your lover couldn’t handle.
The coffee shop is too crowded.