after June Jordan
I want something to happen but
I just don’t know what — with a head
full of smoke, nothing fills me up.
Pears, persimmons, ice, lust
lust — Maybe I need
a woman, a motherless dandelion
to rub emptiness with me.
In the perpetual dinner party of my brain
the guests are tired. They want to go home.
I’m hooking them at the door with my remembers
flirting with the hostages
at my all-hours discothèque:
One fingering sheet
music with her born again
virgin bible study. One kneeling
before a toilet in a bathroom full of SSRIs. One kissing
her dying father and one ignoring his call.
One spread out and reading Nietzsche
amid styrofoam takeout containers. One licking
a mushroom with Dan or Ben or Tom. One arching
on the Persian carpet. One tattooing a kite to her ribs.
One sliding a fishnetted knee between another’s
stockinged legs. Us girls, sad and high.
We never know who is big or bad or wolf
until he has loved or left or made a meal out of us.
I am tired of being devoured.
I make a model of my sorrow, and kiss her.
I’ve been waiting on my misery like a man who won’t come.
I used to live on crumbs
but I too am a wants-to-be-touched thing
that wakes late at night
late at night in the house where no one keeps me.
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