ride. All the people outside are
ants. She loses ground in this
dance. Looking through a thick plated
hole at swirls of cotton candy clouds

she bumps around. ****** forward and back,
up and down, side to side, like a roller-
coaster ride. Her quarters are tight and
cramped, strapped like sardines

in boot camp. The food is bland as
the women. And that's all that she is
given. She cannot move; she cannot tweet,
for she is fastened to her seat. All the doors

are closed. The seat-belt sign imposed. She
cannot leave. But she cannot stay. The air
pushed out like Aerosol spray. Her feet swell
like balloons. Her skin is dried up like a prune.

with legs of caterpillar
tracks. She rolls forward and
she rolls back. She's dark
and cramped and armed

to the teeth. She travels
the roads and the streets, plowing
down everything as she goes. She hums
and she zims. Her arm is a turret,

a long, pointed limb. And she'll
aim it at you with a blood cherry
grin. She peeks out at the world
with two slots she calls

eyes and wears her armor
under grey covered skies. No one
comes near her. And no one gets
in. As far as I know, that's how it's been.

are pithy, one word
dangling on the page,
dripping with sweet
intention. In sunlight we

don't engage. And she's
been with me in Paris, in cafes
and museums, though she's not
left her zip code. And I read

her memes, watercolors running
down my screen. I haven't seen
the sun on her face. But I've seen
her children growing up on my

page. And I cannot erase
years of plastered smiles
like cut out paper dolls. I pasted
on my walls. I stich all

her words together and write
'a poem. But I cannot hear
sounds of laughter or bouncing
echoes after, teetering from

her cherry lips. I trip on my
phone, sitting dark and cold
in my purse, as I nurse my lime
and *****. I'll type her another

line, to tell her all is fine. Inside
I'm breaking in shards of splintered
conversation and plastered smiles,
a bookmark of a life wrapped in pixels tight.

and striped shirts.  No dresses
or skirts. Her mother cut her
chestnut hair all off till it
fell on floor in a pixie cut at the

age of four. Girls called her him. She was
short and slim, no curves. They only
had one, no more. Her parents split
up before she turned two. She didn't

wear ribbons or bows in pink. She wore
black and blue in a purple hue.  She did not
laugh and she didn't play. She stayed in her
room till Groundhog's Day. She didn't have a

shadow. She followed in her mother's
wake.  Every night she'd stuff her mouth
full of chocolate cake, curled up in a ball
under the covers. She wasn't invited to parties

and had no friends. She'd write on her hands
and arms with markers and pens. She didn't
bathe. So, the words stayed etched in her
skin. She learned how to walk on needles and pins.

is a cluttered drawer
filled with tickets torn
in half and colored *****
that fizzle in the

bath. Stained cards and
ripped old photos, drummed
up dreams and wrinkled
bedclothes. Spilled perfume

and fire engine red nail
polish, letters that she'll not
demolish. An army knife that
carved his initials, a document

that stated it's official. It's so
stuffed she cannot close it. Today's
the day she'll recompose it line
by line, wrapping it up in poly twine.

started out the size of
a dime. I couldn't stick
my finger into it. When I lost
time it grew into the size

of my shoe. I'd walk around
for miles this way, carrying
the weight till it was as large as
my waist. I was stuck in quick

sand. Going down slowly no one
lent me their hand. The hole turned
into a stone pit that men did
cartwheels and even a

split. Over the years it expanded
as the ocean and sky. Sun and moon
cried into the abyss. I told them
I found the lost continent.

that fan the sky then
what am I? A black insect with
antennae, that can walk,
but cannot fly. Like an eagle

caged with a broken
wing I'm outraged when
my writing hands in a high
arm sling. They say a caged

bird still can sing. But who
will listen to my song when
there's no wind carrying my
notes? When my throat's sore

from breathing stale air? When
the sun is lost on the easy
chair. This patch I land on is so
small. Not room here for an evening

crawl. I'd be someone as a feather
duster, sweeping ceiling fans till
they luster. Gliding and dipping like
a gull at sunset! Just to get my wings wet.