The impartial grooves and ridges
of my body would not tell me any lies.
I don't want to put names to these thoughts
because if angry wasps can sting, they will.
I am tired of the attack--and redness--
and heat--and swelling--and pain--
at the end, a thin, puckered scar,
pressed together like lips.

I had this dream once:
I was a knight who rode dragons,
and there was this ogre I fell in love with.
When I woke up, I cried because
everything was so absent, here.
I am drained from dreams.

I think lines are weak geometry.
They are for paper, for hair,
for paths that tears take.
You draw lines on family trees
to map the rivers that love flows in.

Years ago, I wanted to be an astronaut.
I would discover a new planet and live with aliens,
and touch every inch of the elusive stars.
The aliens, I was sure, had a monarchy,
and they'd let me be a princess.
I would learn to dance ballet from them,
and in my free time, write a book.
As I got older, I learned that
skinny limbs can't travel in space.

But I want to stretch out to sky and air.
Daphne's name bore mine, so maybe
I was meant to be a tree.


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