The head of broccoli on my plate is a home i’ve only resonated with in rage,
And I’m aware of the heat under the skin of my palms: they show no sign of bursting into flames,
Though i’m not convinced
I am alive in this kitchen.
Forgotten in the the rhythm of our rocking
back
and fourth
Keeping your eyes on a single whitecap is impossible in the harbor,
Everytime I try I get dizzy.
When she opens her mouth I can hear the current
Wickedly smooth and swallowing me whole
i’ll bite every time –
not a case of winning or losing
I am a Black Bass in her casting
But when the wind stills and the whitecaps are few and far between
I see every heartbreak in her hollowed cheeks
and in the passing of the storm,
I can’t help but wonder
Is it my job to extend my burning hands
Over her brittle bones and melt the ice they made of her heart
Call it a condition of today
Call our shared hatred of celery or identical nailbeds coincidental
But rest is a luxury of those who are assumed rational
And I was destined to be crazy.