National Poetry Month 2021

I clean a kitchen that isn’t mine and the naked body of a man I don’t know

rubs up against me. I am frightened and contemplating groping

so that he knows I am not here to be distracted. How do I begin

to move around a build of 250 pounds of muscle and girth? I imagine

him singing into a microphone to get out these naked aggressions and I guess

I resemble something to scream at. Everyone notices, and the world does nothing. 

a blue room needs rearranging, I have on a shirt I gave away to the homeless and somehow it is back on my body and I am tired and wanting to put things back in order but also, I just want to lay down wherever I land. A soft gaze closes and a blackness appears. Minutes, hours or days go by and I wake up surrounded by faces that weren’t there when I left. Some I recognize but only because I’ve seen them through small squares on my phone. Same distraught marbled teeth, the kind that look like I could break them by thinking about them hard enough. 

a fistful of women appear, and they are ready to pose for pictures. I am half-eyed and yawning into my fists. I am tempted to smile but instead lose my grin into my shoulder as the camera flashes in my sinful gaze. I ask to see the picture, the ugly man with the parted black hair and barnyard eyes who just took it willingly gives me the camera to figure out. I fumble through what looks like generic talent and see my breasts in rest, my sleepy torso and eyes, small slits of comfort on a pillow. I see his hands pulling up my shirt like a fort to get a closer look. I am gone—a ship sailed off, a migrant bird, a migraine lessened by its own accord. He looks up and smiles, I return the camera and slowly piss my leg. I want to rip his hands off and feed them to anything feral. I explain to myself that I’ll figure out what to do. You will eat his eyes and scoop them out with his own hands.