they were always there and you’re the weird one for looking. I’ll find an elevator and some lady asks what floor and I’ll think, maybe she’s really nice or hitting on me which is unfortunate since I’m fucking someone who works at Wells Fargo, and I feel weird about that, considering my quartered blood and how that bank funds the pipelines poisoning my family further with sludge and slurry. I follow her into the elevator anyway she suddenly shuts a cage door behind me pulls a lever the butterflies in my stomach float up my throat my mouth the buttons warm round and glowing. In order to love again I need to feel organic, submerge myself in lavender, rose petal, lemony waters, stay in one place in one room for hours. But no matter how hard I try I can’t wash that air off me. It clings to my sleeves like a grasshopper tuning her attentive belly ear, and one famine away from locust.
POETRY | 93