All this tall grass has ruined my gold
acrylic nails & I know something’s dead
just beyond my window. I grew up
with rats running my floorboards
the smell that strains from a body
caught in a trap. In the city
what little I have of an ass
is always out, a simple wind blow
from Marilyn Monroe–ing the street.
I promised myself I’d be naked,
here, in all this nature, but the first day
I found a tick clinging to my arm hair for dear
life & decided no way I’m exposing
my pussy to the elements. My love
for nature is like my love for most things:
fickle & theoretical. Too many bugs
& I want a divorce.
My love for the past is like my love
for most things. I only feel it when
I leave. Last week, before I was here
my uncle drove me from our city
to the suburbs & sang “Project Chick”
in the car. When we parked
he asked me to take off my shoes
& there we walked, silent, barefoot
circling the lake, trying to not step
in goose shit.
He walked in front & I trailed behind
both our hands clasped behind our backs.
He said:
When you were my daughter,
it was the happiest days of my life.
I wish you would come home.
Best to stay gone, so I’m always in love.
My gold nails are fake. The floorboards
carry death. My bare feet skirt the shit.