Magic Trick
In the prime of my life I grew very quiet.
I shape-shifted into a cluster of glass grapes on a side table.
I arranged my hands in a particular pattern
of movements and made a sweater I quickly unstitched
for a reason to tangle my limbs.
In the prime of my life I preferred white to red and spaghetti
absolutely drenched, butter dripping down my chin.
I forgot my manners and became silently appalling and no one
minded not even me.
In the prime of my life I left my house. I was proud
of how far I’d come, squinting from the porch — cars, signs,
trees like thwarted violins, a hum all their own.
I called my mother hi mommy, my voice a tiny
creek I hoped no one heard trickling.
In the prime of my life I was embarrassed to exist.
She said you’re in the prime of your life! so I lit on fire
a single strand of hair and waited for a spell
to cast itself.
* * * * *
I Do Not Want To Be Necessary
I want to make an appearance and go home.
I want a fur coat and a cigar and for everyone to think me
a high-heeled aristocrat with a fortune of lovers. I want a dauntless
mouth, a good tough grit. The night floats in like a slow-moving
cruise ship woozy with the rich and alcoholic footsteps of temporary
mariners watching chandeliers shimmer across the coffered ceiling
of the ballroom, and I want to gaze lugubriously from the balcony
and have many feelings. Every day a new explosion of confetti,
shiny-wrapped candy, but I’m tired of the party. Or afraid
of inflated balloons, the married ghosts of unrequited crushes
saying you should have told me! All the ways there are to die
or remain forever the same. I want to get tattoos and feel cool
and never once bad for talking shit on all my enemies despite
their idiosyncratic insecurities I know so little about and also everyone
to stop feeling like leftover salt on the unswept ground.
I want a hot body, to not be hungover after two glasses of wine.
I want a full harvest. I want floodlights. I want Halle to text me back.