My Chrysler was a survivor. Hidden piles of broken glass and leather seats split to foam. Summer of ‘99 and sailing down a gravel road named after a tree and a stone. And when we came to a stop, the dust did not. Meanwhile, the radio implores me to get it back 2 good.

I drag my sneakers with white socks pulled up to the shin to the only lonely structure on this stretch of land. A pole building painted ivory and evergreen. It’s mostly empty and smelling of raccoon **** and rusted metal. I grab the machete from the bench and get to work.

My squinted gaze is locked on the acres of horseweed ahead as I dramatically roll my eyes and walk down a freshly mown path. The unending task of the swing and the hack. Piles of severed green. My dad might call this agricultural TLC, but I am feeling very unpretty.

I distract myself from the labor with my Sony Walkman—mustard gold. She’s got EXPMAX technology with 40-second shockproof memory. The headphones move from my sissyneck to my sissyears and I’m pulled by a derelict wind to anywhere other than my own body.

That is, until the blade hits bone. My kneecap is now split in half by a sanguine smile. Its teeth of bubbling fat laugh at how my husky body runs. Its small mouth pouring its way down my calf. My sock, now a magician, is changing colors with effortless conviction.

The panic carries me down the street. Bless the neighbors and their butterfly bandages. Bless the glass of lemonade and a ring to my mother. Bless this memory buried deep under scar tissue purple and pink.

I now realize my first car and I had something in common. All this blood and gristle and glass needed an impact to be set free. Baz Luhrmann told me to be kind to my knees. But I blame it all on the ******* horseweed.

The world softens as the jackals tear into gray matter. A pound of flesh? Take twenty. Saran wrapped and gasped with elastic tongues releasing. Maybe I shouldn’t eat? Crawl across the floor. Starving. The repulsion neatly packed into too many to-go containers. Buy one, get one free. Clamshells waiting silently for a low tide feast.

A shard of metal—electric taped to the portal. Shrapnel from a cymbal. Or was it a symbol? Bell bronze. Nickel silver. If you strike something enough, it’s going to break free. Or did I just break everything? Factory grease. Sociology. Sometimes I fantasize about climbing a tree. The tree is named Cereal. And when I ascend, I am camouflaged in green. Waiting for winter to take me under its wing. I become an alloy. A sonnet. She ties her weathered bow around my rust. I know it’s disgusting. But when you swing the gate—my patina sings.

You won’t see me when I enter. The crystals of glass
gliding past as I ride a sliver of moon glow

through your window and crumple to your floor.
You won’t see me when I rise and survey

the scene. A foreign body by your side. Books you’ll never
read. I slip a gossamer thumb into your slumbered

mind. Let me finger through your dreams. Taste you
from the inside. I’m not sure why I chose to arrive. But I’ll move

an object enough to leave a mark. And now, like before. You won’t
see me. I leave quietly in the night. The last thing you’d want

is an encore.

fertilized on god
yet withering
off-grid

look at what
you did, kid
when you
split

barbed
wire
ivy
meandering

don’t talk
down to me
no
pandering

listen to what
i said, babe
when i
came

right on out
into the
bleeding
truth

but there
is no map
in
me

this is all
so
differently
happening

That green glass bottle resting gently by your sink. A little mist of memories kissing the curve of your neck. You’re cooking in the kitchen. Cardamom. Cinnamon. Your braided belt is on the floor. The one I removed from the loops of your khaki gate. I’m at home in this garden. Please, oh please let me swing in the hammock until I’m old. Here with your majestic oak. Fingers in the coils of your moss. Ginger. Clove. You’re humming into the steam. I sit on the bruised leather sofa and remember how you once climbed up my second-story balcony. A bowl of berries and the cream of your teeth. Fenugreek. Everything fades. Gets pulled away. Coriander. Allspice. Let me taste the nutmeg once more. A small child stares at me because I’m in Target crying over a glass bottle and the man it contains. Paprika smoked into oblivion. Blooded ash on the edge of his drawing on your refrigerator. Inside, I’m rotting like a box of mushrooms you forgot. Behind the bowl of cherries. Cursed by your memory. Salt. Ground chilis.

The lawnmower idled—a mechanical reprieve. The engine became a dull lull calling me in. My brother left it running while he went inside to ***. My childhood naïveté and this metal monstrosity. Palpable curiosity.

I made my fingers into blades of grass. ****** them into the plastic chute. The ting of metal slowed when striking bone.

****.

I’m bleeding and screaming now.
Running into the house.

A small scar is all that remains.
That and this lesson:
Always keep your distance,
lest you be destroyed.