Body
I can’t stop talking to strangers in my sleep
about what it means to dream
I live in my home,
the house where I touch my eyes
but still there they are, two giant dryers
rocking bloody clothes.
When I’m not sleeping, I picture my body
outside, a deaf thing I speak to
without using my hands.
I want to take my body to the park,
let it touch all the dogs, ask how old they are.
I want to walk my body on a building’s edge
and let it look down for no reason.
Bring my body to a grimy bar. Order it water.
I go to the bus stop and there’s no bus,
just some old lady who’s probably young
asking me about wrestlers and chicken wings.
I get a text message about Wisconsin.
The sun makes me sweaty. Maybe it’s my clothes.
I have all these groceries.
I remember a friend on this street once said to me,
“I don’t want to go to the grocery store and think about what I need.”
I need a bus, to water my plants, to put these vegetables in the freezer.
Get home where I can sing off-key to the baby who isn’t mine,
push his stroller to the cul-de-sac where I talk about circles and dead leaves.
Dressed in black, my hot chest carries the sunlight home.
The room blues. A text message about how a haircut
makes her feel like herself again, but who is she?
Someone on the Internet likes my photo of a TV screen.
I want to take a nap but my body won’t let me
like it lets me fuck strangers, alphabetize my pantry,
lie to my shrink. In the dark backyard, I’m holding a shovel,
pressing my fingers into your thigh, walking to elementary school
and it rains all over my pretty overalls.
With a shovel full of dirt, where’s it go?
I remember I left something in the washing machine.
The baby is pawing at soft blocks in the morning light
and I want to tell him a story.
I stroke his hair in the direction it is growing.
| Stephanie Goehring |
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