Things I Will Probably Never Say To My Imagined Child
Listen to me when I speak to you, my sudden slice of person.
Your skin is only a stretch of land sanctioned by the first light
your eyes blink away from. My common miracled thing,
let the village women burn sage over you rocketing limbs —
tremble to a pink meat, scrape your fingers on their wooden
teeth. Their love songs aren’t for you love. Be a sk8er boi
rock chick, gal-dude — my sweet gendered nuisance. Be an empty
parking lot at night. Whole into dumb a nothing, my blue-glass
smithereen. Be the spooky-eyed cousin to the dangers you
were born with. My totally normal angel, be cool like your mother.
Wreck havoc my slinky boomerang — learn to juggle, learn to hustle
learn to wipe your own ass by age five. Find a galaxy to shoot tennis
balls at. I hope they float back to you, a mouthful of lightbugs.
Come here my moonbodied half-body, beautiful is nothing important.
I hope you see a volcano one day, my honey glazed torpedo, I hope
lava flames from its hot bloated gut before setting the sky completely
on fire and it reminds you of me.about the author