once I lose my physical form there will be nothing left / ​of mine for men to take

Behind the glass / you fog into horror.

cozily wrapped in breasts / chain draped / between an / animal wing // she, of ferment / + fur, an / iconic desire // + solution to / condemnation: / a leather ride

In this world an army is seeking / the demon. The demon is seeking // you. You and I crouch in the wicker / womb of a scarlet hot air balloon’s // basket. We avert our eyes. We do not / touch. We are lucky to have this time. // Heat, string, and scraps of cloth are all / that preserve us from falling to fangs. // From being pincushioned by arrows. / The beast is a mountain: gray and titanic. // The army howls for blood. They will / not discern between its death and yours.

in a room, beyond a curtain— / a T.V. blares its voice, because talking / is for children— / and I know things children shouldn’t know

I am holding myself in my abdominal cavity. / I am happy I am not speaking. / This morning I looked at the sun. / I am okay with it I think. / My head is large but not unwieldy. / I think you are better than me.

I am brown country thunder / brewing, heat wave of mi madre / prim and plotting for expired / Revolution.

I am trying to love the white in me every single day / because I fought so hard to love the brown

Forgive the impulse / To fold yourself // Small enough / To fit // Inside everyone’s / Happy

Eventually, this father baby ghost of someone I once knew pressed his head forth from my chest. He pushed through the canal of my neck until he found the spot where my spine opened up and there was a whole new place for him to occupy. Soon, those ghostly thoughts and memories that he carried with him sat in among my own.

If I were to talk of a history and the sounds of you, / then I would create a space with a bamboo chime / waving and making a flat sound not like / metal on metal but more like earth pounding on straw.