I’m brushing my hair and my friends have guns
in their mouths. They’re making knots
of barrels, sucking
bullets – they’re flirting with me,
all of them. They wink, use tongues
to pull triggers.
The dead friends stand and new friends drop
out of dead friends’ mouths.
The new ones talk:
Happy to see you,
Happyto seeyou happy.
I am brushing my hair. There is no
blood. Nothing to clean or look
away from. The new friends have
guns. Have big mouths.
They point guns to the ground
and shoot. There is dust and we are
happy. Covered in it.
I’d like to have a chicken as a therapist, but only if the chicken has a PhD. But
only if the chicken is funny and fond of dental floss. (Maintaining oral hygiene is a hobby of
mine.) I want to know who chickens dream about. I want to know how it feels to floss a beak,
how it feels to point my face at something, lunge, and open. I imagine opening with my nose to
be the most empowering, something feminist theorists write about. I’d hold doors with my nose
for hours—of course eggs can rot inside of a chicken, provided the chicken is dead. Living
chickens boil eggs with their own feathered insulation—I’d hold the door for you with my nose.
You’d talk to me about being capable enough to open a door for yourself, thank you, and I’d
apologize to you (nose pressed to door), looking all ashamed, but still proud and sniffing
You used to be a whale and then you ate a whale
and now you’re a cannibal.
I used to be an avid pogo-stick-er
and dream that my bones were liquid
cheese, a real nice fondue.
I’m always breaking into the maintenance closet
thinking it’s a stairwell. I’m always making eye contact
with the mop and the mop raises her eyebrows
because she thinks I’m a fucking lunatic. I am not
crossing my heart.
I am not sticking a needle anywhere,
thank you. I want to stick
all of the spring salad from New Jersey
into my tote bag. I want to have an elaborate ceremony for this
like a wedding but more meaningful. I want a marble pedestal.
I want to hold my tote bag’s hand even though my father doesn’t
know I’m a lesbian. I need the pope to be there to officiate
because my tote bag is Catholic and she’d love that shit.
I need Pope Francis to ask,
Do you want to stuff your tote bag full of spring salad?
In New Jersey in front of my family, I need to cut off the pope.
Do you want to stu—
I do. Goddammit, I do