fatigue, thirst, cinder blocks in my thighs
it is the moon, the election, your father, my father,
each woman I cycle with cycled and released
I am holding something in
a net full of salmon scraping the bottom of the sea
at work, in this conversation, heavier with the night
Sitting here naked cocooned, wombed by my great grandmothers forest green wool blanket, the coat of the white dog in the coffee shop, bristles, hair.
My fingertips are dry and adjusting to November solitude. I dig the dirt out of a pot with just my left hand. Mistrust in every headwind, every masculine presenting face that isn’t queer, every limb of my self that wants to be fucked.