a blue woman with sticking out ******* hanging
clothes.  On the line. not so old
for the mother of twelve undershirts(we are told
by is it Bishop Taylor who needs hanging

that marriage is a sure cure for *******).

                          A ***** wind,twitches the,clothes which are clean
—this is twilight,
                          a little puppy hopping between
skipping
              children
                            (It is the consummation
of day,the hour)she says to me you big fool
she says i says to her i says Sally
i says
          the


                  mmmoon,begins to,drool

softly,in the hot alley,

a ******’s voice feels curiously cool
(suddenly-Lights go!on,by schedule

Too many layers.
Peel them off of me slowly.
Don’t worry. You’re next.

I can feel it down to my knees.
It terrifies me to fidgets.  
Not like that serial-killer-
chasing-my-pure-as-the-wind-driven-snow-***-
aroun­d-some-secluded-farmhouse-
in-the-middle-of-the-night-
when-I-hav­e-the-least-possible-chance-of-survival
kind of “terrify.”

I compare this kind of “terrify” to
the first time I set eyes on the Atlantic.
A hushed minute—
my eyes straining to see the end
of that blue on blue horizon.
And I’m
so filled with wonderment
at the thought of such a treacherous beauty—
I think, without question,
the idea of it all will surely swallow me whole.

Truth is
I'd jump right down that throat
without a single hesitation
if I knew the feeling would stick.
Truth is
I stay put—
because I know
that just because you plant a seed
doesn't mean it wants to grow.

No single thing in
existence scares me more than
living a cliché.

No cure for a ***** mind.
Ain't that a shame.

Out of wine.
So alone in my white girl pain.

To be the object
of someone's fresh jealousy
seems so delicious.

I have this revelation—
like some eerie recurring dream.
It dips and cleanses my conscience
for a full five seconds of clarity.
A situation, short in stature, where
I can take slow breaths knowing that
I am able to walk away from this
bearing enough grit and grin to
repair all of my cracks and voids
with something stickier—
something I found on my own.

I have this revelation—
and in it, the boy is just a smudge
in the upper left-hand corner
of a yellowed photo
depicting a new me
and a new someone else
skinny dipping in some unnamed waterfall
deep in the secret folds of Appalachia.
In it, the smiles on the faces
are so incandescent
that the person holding the photo
doesn't notice
the charming tummy rolls, disheveled hair
or the smudge in the upper left-hand corner.

I have this revelation—
happiness should not be Rubik's-cubed into impossibility.
I have this revelation—
happiness should be simple.
Happiness should be simple.
            Happiness should be.
                                   Simple.