January 18 th , 2019

i. down the street from Chabot
she asks if I always do that,
play with my hair that is,
and the door swings open.
I fear for all the heat in the
living room syphoned in
search of the hubble scope’s
laser point, not to tiptoe around
the stars but to say I’m here, its done, I was
warned of this day. the cold

grabbing a lock of what I thought
was mine. the fraudulence of this
new comfort. the audacity of the length
curl and shrinkage- the bounce back
into shelter with grocery bags
and a dustpan. the mythos
of sacred numbers traveling
the sun swallowing me whole
in one gulp. yes I reply. hmm
she responds. nothing breaks
but the silence of gravity

ii. the subtext that leads to my disclosure~
I actually do this a lot now.
there’s a lot I wish I didn’t do.
do you know how long it takes
an iv to embarrass a pulse? or that
I’ve had students who tilt their noggins
sideways to the idea of ‘TLC’ but I’m just now
learning what “scrubs” meant? or the fact
that you have given all of us three rules to live by
and we’ve all broken all of them- and my insides have
their own spin cycle I don’t know how to stop- do you
remember you used to call me ‘wash’? how I couldn’t
pronounce myself? you said you were cool with libations
and burning bushes but I’ve made gems dissolve into thin
ir- and maybe that’s why I fear your gaze- but I just need you
to tell me the punishment is over. you were always good
at telling me when it was done and I never listened-