I type Beyoncé into my phone
five out of seven days a week.
That’s because I am a woman.
I’m a little unpolished
behind the scenes. I am lonely
and so are all my friends.
When one season of
The Real Housewives closes,
another one opens. New moons
disappear unmagically. I am very
complicated and so is Beyoncé.
Dogs in their gait of privilege
circle her. Snow falls for her,
shellacks windows for her.
Beyoncé, are you sure you’re okay?
I slice lemons in my quiet apartment
and pile them on a step. When I think
about revolution, I turn to the B-side
of Dangerously in Love. I sequin
my breasts like morning
shells, teeth sucked as performance.
People say things
they think are true, like “I love you”
and “I feel in a particular way.”
I want to be so close and bold.
In the news today Beyoncé went
to brunch this weekend. Two
neighborhoods over, dressed in all black.
Comparing salad recipes
and third-wheeling weekend dinners
dog kibble in my loafers
seducing my self in sweat pants
is not how I envisioned my twenties
or is it. In high school I made a mixtape
called “Ladies Is Pimps Too.”
That was long before my therapist
asked about my masculinity
while new buds in Riverside Park
slobbered with rain.
The only dream I’ve had all year
is the one where I am driving
out of control. The brakes are shot,
the landscape changes, accelerate
instead of stop. It’s almost too
obvious to interpret, like teeth
or pomegranates, or ocean.
If you aren’t interested in self-
absorption, do not follow me
on Twitter. Sometimes I think
I should have been left
in the incubator longer.
Everyone got high
levels of entitlement in our veins.
We think we are owed.
Everything, but especially silence.
A secret is during commercials
I am living other lives, sautéing
green vegetables, imagining spring
breeze carry me through the apartment
like a branch, or a painter. There is
no humor in touch, the absolute truth.
If I breathed on Beyoncé, would she
begin to weep? I go to sleep,
it’s dark, no one breathes.