July 3, 2006
Choked
I rained down here from space, I swear.
Fled from men in uniforms
double-dosed and staggering.
“Fine me up,” I said
to the wind, waving whiskey hands.
I did defend my actions
to the tired-faced pursuit; “Hold on, Miss,”
they said. “We’re not done with you!”
I stumbled to an alleyway, choked.
You’re a whisper now,
a madness with these stormcloud eyes.
You drew figures on my back;
escape routes, back doors, plans.
Abandoned boatsheds were our homes,
abandoned reason filled our time.
Higher, farther, the wind blows
the shreds of my paint-spilled shirt.
“No, these are not my people,”
I explained to wounded photographs.
“To crowded squares I came,
I rained down here from space, I swear.”
They sentenced me to solitude
and fictional homes. As crowds brushed up
against my self-inflicted pristine skin,
my thighs sighed contempt.
They had watched me rebel, silent now.
Famished for your moth-shaped cheeks,
grin-filled coyote teeth, smells of earth
and busy fingers, dripping paint.
“Good morning, Miss; hold on now
while I fill your name tag
with the substance for the day.”