Sometimes I wake up and wonder if I have left my eyes behind in my sleep. I twist my rings round and round my fingers. I try to see clearly.
I once believed my blood ran blue in my body, just because my veins told me so. We keep telling ourselves little lies. We’re not supposed to believe them, but I do.
Tonight the moon is a sliver, a fingernail clipping. I decide that I want to make everything tiny and keep the world in my pocket.
In the mornings, every green thing hangs heavy with sweat.
I wipe the dew from the grass.
I tell it to stand up straight.
Everything can be a polished stone if you want it. No lines no
sharp edges. Someday I will iron out
all the crevices and creases in the fiddle-leaf fig leaves,
in the palms of your hands,
in the microscopic mountain ranges that make up tree bark,
so I can run my finger over everything so smooth, so
that nothing splinters anymore.
I try to track where the steam goes as it rises. I want to watch it arrive.
I reboil the same water over and over until it creeps
down to a pale shadow huddled
in the bottom of the pot.
I cannot even recognize
my own footprints
in a bank of snow.
I just move