I dreamt of curling up in Luray, while ring of fire played in the background.

By this point, I was fluent in seven languages, so I said “You are perfect” six different ways, and then I said “thank you” in the one we had invented. (that is, two inappropriate taps of my feet, and one of those kisses after which I laugh and you say “thanks” as if I’ve just given you a clean pair of socks).

And when I unstick my eyelids in the morning there are three plates, a waterfilled stein, and three biscotti wrappers on the ground

         because I wrote until sunrise, and then dreamt about all the ways I have been beautiful since. hotesophagus. and “mi amor” fits nicely between my teeth.

sleep is far away

I could never accept
life as it was,
i could never gobble
down all its
poisons
but there were parts,
tenuous magic parts
open for the
asking. 

I’m inclined to say, at this very moment, that there is nothing more perfect than eating out of styrofoam and listening to Etta James.