When I Wake Up and There is No Ceiling, That is Best.

its all just a big spill.


BUTTERFLY NAPS


i fell asleep
outside in a blue light
sticky watermelon haze of
a tide, rising up to my neck
and smoke snaking out of my
nostrils,
a sickly sweet drowning/waking
drowning/waking, drowning/waking
in which my clothes
slipped off
and were washed away
and i was left to wake/sleep
eat/&/breathe
nothing
except myself, very raw.

in the latticed hammock
my dreams were fevered,
lonely, and bent on aspyhxiation
but i kept my hand close to my eyes
and sweet-talked the phantom of
my summer,
with promises of
conjugal electrocution when
the weather was warm,
and invitations to dinner
in cooler evenings--
"this strawberry punch is
divine!"

and when my lids loosened
and i was aware of the cold
breeze exploring my knees and
filling my skirt like a ringing bell,
i found my body--
a little browner,
a little leaner,
a little less virginal--
and i wrapped my arms around it
and awaited an apology.

but none came.