A PHOBIA OF DYING IF MOTION STOPS
I know what I’d wish for
if I fell from the sky
I know—lying on my back in black
lace panties that ride
tight like my skin in your bed when
you aren’t home—
I know what I need & it isn’t you
Or the gold-gilded mirror in my hand
saying it was never me
but something else—the way
a porn star gazes & gazes, moans to make
you believe it’s story
more than bodies, bodies more than
rivers of sweat & release
So we dance
to keep our breastplate cities rising
bones from solidifying
to keep the right to walk away
Backed against a subway door
we wear motormen gloves to feel
bodies without payment
Your hands/my hands
sundials or walking canes
never our own
in a room full of other hands
We’re dust, cover-ups
Sierra Madre treasure masked
in artificial plants, breasts & sweeteners
What would we do if we lost electricity?
Let the constant dark make our eyes colder
forget how to absorb heat?
My skin, a jealous, deficient warmer
craves an excuse
to carve power-lines into licorice
Rescue sirens blare, docks & stars wreck away
What river, after straightened & channeled
would revert back?
What river wouldn’t?
What body would be content
with being just another in the dark?