I can’t be sorry
enough. I have learned
everything is urgent.
Road closings, animal lungs.
I am working hard to be
as many people as possible
before I can’t.
I know my long, dark movie
is fistfuls
of gravel in a brown bottle.
My storyboards fill me
with calculated sorrow.
A full plate and burnt sage.
Dollar signs, breaking news.
I work two and three jobs.
I am honorable and brave.
The ensemble cast
whittles down.
Maybe I am a slave.
I make ends meet.
I don’t get kissed.
Behold my wide smile.
Octavia Spencer cooks in a small
apartment. She serves joyfully
and doesn’t eat. She wipes her palm
on her apron, forehead.
Angela Bassett is sick and tired
of being. Denzel Washington
reminds us how often
we are afraid. We get arrested.
Someone narrates.
What you look like
is sheer fabrics and ivory shells.
Alec Baldwin is smoking a joint
in the bathroom of a CEO’s
birthday party. Steve Martin
tastes the goat cheese
and considers nothing.
You never get arrested.
There is no question
that god waits at the end
of your staircase curling
softly like wood-finished ribbon.
Anne Hathaway hires a decorator.
Diane Keaton makes midnight
pancakes, tops them with
lavender ice cream.
What is beautiful
does not need to be
called beautiful.
No one talks about money.
In our house, the sky
is upside down.
None of us find unlikely love.
I do not revel in my luxury.
I would rather serve than eat.
If it seems like I desire you,
you’re right. I want my whole
mouth around your safety.
I want to be buried
side by side.