has tears and remembers the wound.
I am too wound around
waiting and hunger.
 
I sing this body: desire as now.
Not “No Ma’am” to the twenty-four-year-old
man’s body.
No more people pleasing at the resister, I think
as I continue to bag for someone on their phone,
until the day that there are no more groceries.
 
While two miles away in those marble mausoleums,
democrats wring their hands to dust and
say they care, but they do not care to know a body like
mine. Not even the legible one.
 
Good.
 
And I stitch a body
that is my own. While in white houses or behind picket fences
they do not listen to birds always singing.
To be bound and beholden to my lover, my friends, and thee—
it is us and not U.S.
 
And even when we have no groceries, we will have a body to share.
We stitch them out of things they cannot begin to see and do not
know.
I puncture and repair the time-space fabric while their stiff makeup and fascist legislation ties them to the floor.
I am
indiscernible.
And I will be
that way when I die too.
 
Good.
 
There should be things
they will never know: what it looks like between blades of grass,
or how to touch all things cosmic—
like my actual body.