& she leans, takes my knee in her mouth, like a puppy.
this is her song. I am a pale mountain from her native
landscape. she moans & it is my name. it is not sexy, it is
sexual. my blue wrist suckled in her other mouth is an
enchilada. I think about how my car won’t sell on
Craigslist. I think about how ill-prepared I am to do my
taxes. she can tell my mind is elsewhere. she doesn’t
mind. she sucks a peach. I take her photograph & it is a
Selfie. there are so many ways to need yourself. a faint
nipple through the bubbles. she has no reason to hide
from me. we are sisters in the army of almost. it is the
way we flirt. we are never bored. Björk uses a can-
opener to open the bathwater. it’s working.
she slides my mental hospital evaluation papers into the
water, so they dissipate into tiny paper fish. this is her
song. I am a mossy stone remembering its past life as a
bird. she names every doctor who never met my eye. it is
not political, it is a curse. my chest is an ivy wall
replenished by her hacking hands. I think about how I
threw up the bad medicine. I think about being told to
just swallow it. she can tell I am reliving the neon isolation
of mind-jail. she doesn’t flinch. just sucks a jawbreaker. I
see her tongue change color & exhale a fuck of rivers.
there are so many ways to crown yourself. a perfect
nipple glaciers thru. she has no reason to judge me. we
are sisters in the queendom of Self. it is the way we work.
we are sweetened sweat. Björk puts a straw to my
forehead & drinks the suds. it’s lovely. her eyes are truth
wagons chugging along ancient dirt.
Copyright © 2019 Shira Erlichman
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books.