water.

i.

i live in the House of the Sleeping Goat,

i answer to a different name, these days

and they send me flowers wrapped in prayers.

i am my only god.

ii.

my body practices the art

of imitation. i’m learning to be more

than a reflection sitting on another’s cornea.

today i’ll be a shotgun.

ii.

forgiveness, they say, is

a slow and quiet walk, a sigh in the dark that

no one applauds. forgiveness, i say,

is the courage not to run.

iii.

the blood in my brain is forming a wave

and i’m soon to flood you out. say goodbye

to the carpet and the paint

in the House of the Sleeping Goat.

iv.

i spent months scrubbing the

floor of my womb and it

took a long time to get here. all things,

love included, are scoured off today.

v.

my mother grew my body inside her like a flower

and i’ve sucked the sunlight from this ugly place.

don’t run, little dove – kneel to the water – after all,

it’s coming for you just the same.