My baby's got the weight of the world
carved into her brow and you can see
it for yourself; she cuts her own bangs.

She loves me tall, she loves me thin, she
loves me in what she calls an "Ethiopian way";
you can see it for yourself in the dark corners of
the internet.

She holds the Guinness-certified record for the
highest use of the hashtag "#vegan." I believe
her when she says cheese is the unitary measure
of loneliness. I'm sure you do too.

She used to substitute teach for Cameron Christian.
She'd take selfies with autistic children and some
called her profane and some called her dangerous
but I thought her posts about the effects of vaccinations
made her seem so in touch with the world, so pure in spirit.

And on those slow nights when we're in bed
with the incense hanging above us, between
her considerations of transitioning into a man
and her considerations of starting an alpaca rescue,
I think about how winning the lottery would be
a disappointment.

You admired the bruised yellow of the
light-polluted sky as we came to Fifth and Harbinger.
You said the day refused to die, the day
was an aspiring week, and your hand was
in mine. Even moment to moment, those times with
you felt like an era. You used to pull records
out of their sleeves and examine their condition.
I dressed like a professor, and for one and only one
season in my life, I desired someone just as they were.

My walk is anxious now, my body entire fearful that it will
fall into your gaze.

The tweed has transfigured into rhinestone. There's a microphone
stitched into the fabric and I'm always on record. I talk
in a deliberate way, like a tv preacher trying to be authentic.
I'm afraid you'll hear my voice. I'm afraid you won't hear my voice.

If you found a splinter of the man you once loved, could you bend and warp it? Could you recreate your desire?

One day. One week. One season.

I'm on the way,
if you take the long way,
past the Arlington Cemetary,
where the babies of the
influenza epidemic do sleep,
down from the ancient cedars
and the ruins of the Winchester Bank
established in 1908.

I'm on the way,
if you take the long way,
past the snaking and rusting
barbed wire of the Scott Place,
where my father chopped cotton
and his father died under the weight
of a fallen log and his father died
to the backfire of a shotgun.

I'm on the way,
if you take the long way,
past the Cimarron River and idle wheat fields,
where my mother once watched the dust
roll in and the money blow away,
down from the birthplace of
a serial killer you've heard about,
down from a quiet, flybuzz pace
that so often inspires rage.

1

You will avoid overcomplimenting. Stick to phrases
eeked of desire—smart blouse, handsome family.

You will find a chair. Tilt your head until you've
found the ceiling. Let discomfort loom. Let her speak.

Don't respond right away. Make her second guess her words.
Let her try to ramble out of it on a macro level. Let her dwell
on the micro miscalculations in silence.

Give it some time. Respond.
But calibrate. Be indirect, detached. "I'm here, aren't I?"

2

Don't encourage sentimentality or nostalgia.

When she brings up the early days—and she'll bring up the early days—remind her of your many failures in kindness.

The time she called from the psych ward and you told her you were busy should work. Or when you made her walk home after
the big fight. Or when you introduced her as a friend.

3

Here, she'll take your hand and guide it along her soft features.

Oblige.

Focus on the way you take her in. Give her a jagged gaze.
Don't relent.

Undress yourself. Do this without intro or segue or ceremony.

Comment on her alkaline and citrus taste. Drift five feet above yourself and watch it happen.

4

Laying tangled in the aftermath of blankets and sheets, ask her
about her husband.

Ask her about her drinking.

Ask her about her son's new school.

Ask her about her prescriptions, the side effects.

5

Take the long way home. Grab the brown belt to go with the brown shoes. Drink water. Lots of water. Eggs, not cereal.

Show up early to work. Appear eager and sincere in your every
task.

Blend.

Find the muck, I do;
pull my shoes off, I do.
I feel it, the muck,
tethering and I feel
competition pulsating.
Competition against what?
Against the water that surrounds,
I guess;
Against the mud between my toes,
I guess.
I missile off it, the ocean floor,
careening upward, and I missile
the bright fishes in my wake.
My wake?
I attended it, you could say;
I got over it, you could say.
And I could stop here, the surface,
floating face down.
But what of the alternative?
An appetite for oxygen, I have;
a heavenly itch, I have.
A skyward geyser, I could be;
a bolt of lightning in reverse, stand back, see.

Now, underwater, sound turns itself
inside out. I aim myself
toward the floor of the pool
but my pruned hands never
find it. Down down down.
Deep water. As quickly
as fear arrives, it's traded
for confusion; confusion,
for abandon; abandon, for peace.
Down here, I barely am.
The weight of my body erodes.
Watch me stingray. Watch me dolphin.
Watch me ball up into stone.
Watch me sink.
Listen for my whale song.
Wait for me to geyser.

Shirtless and floating in the hotel pool,
staring at the hotel ceiling.
I'm waiting.

A permanent pace and temperature hold here.
The desk clerk tip-toes into the room on occasion,
up to the ladder, and whispers, as if she might wake me,
"Are you sure you still don't need anything?"

It's 11 p.m. The pool closed at 10.

I raise a hand and she tip-toes back to the desk.

I'm waiting. I'm floating on my back. The ceiling
is ornate, beautiful. Flourishes interlock and repeat.

I haven't said a word in three days. The first day
was unintentional and only realized as I crawled into
bed. The second day came easy, felt meditative. Now
my silence is another obligation.

I used to feel sorry for myself. On a different occasion,
I lived with such reckless intensity.

Now, I'm trying to raise my credit score.

I want to trace the ceiling. I'm shirtless, floating, waiting.
I'm on my back.

I imagine this is what god must feel like,
this removed, this gone, a spectator, impotent
and waiting.

I bring my shoulder blades in and sink. I'm underwater.
I'm underwater and the ceiling distorts. I'm underwater
and the desk clerk is nowhere to be found. I'm underwater,
shirtless, staring, waiting.