I keep mace in my fanny, taser in my backpack, smarts on street, wit on tongue, a real girl on the run.
I pray for serenity and a sedative script. I keep having nightmares in which I can, but choose not to run.

 

As a kid, my hair was clementine, my cheeks, freckled by the bazillions and I snuggled mealworms. I’d hate to tell her, kid me, how I rind, how demons are faster than my earth-body, I jog and they run.

 

The only thing I have to do is die. I must be a masochist, what, with my gym memberships, kissing men. Exercise curbs depression. I wonder if Kate Spade (classy lady) went to spin class, yoga, or liked to run.

 

Alarm, 5:45 AM, I sud my adult acne, smell my moled armpit, perfume it, morning affirm “I’m strong.” I am a girl’s girl. But no, I’ve never been backstabbed, just raped and to my suprise, I was unable to run.

 

Routines make sense. My organized mess? Work, home, eat, jog, put my boobs in the nightstand, stretch. No, not training for a 5k, just for the day I fall in love and my gut pulls me aside, whispers, “bitch, run.”

​

​

​

​

​

​​​

​​

Changing the Channel

​

The baby keeps putting things in his mouth. Toy giraffe who squeaks limply, I get it. I’ll 

change the channel, fine. 6-year-old found in mom’s garbage can. That's the way love 

treats a woman. Compelled to kiss greatness should she only ditch the adjunct. You

-r spirit is too true. My fear is acute. The pug is licking the highchair. Tongue out, forever 

 

yearning for the next scrap. Home is where the swamp is boasts my graphic tee. But I’ll 

never be as reptilian as you—mullein for this, mullein for that—you assure “nettle is like 

nature’s IcyHot!” Home is the molar pit in my gums. Some faux carnitas nest there, you 

know, the veggie protein stuff? Wild hogs really debase the family vision that I casted for

 us. Maybe I could spend the summer learning about bonds. Or the present. I'm always 

 

trying to orient myself toward goals other than you. We’d have kids but never be as 

as brazen as couples who curate a list of gender amorphous baby names. Our love is long

& conditional. You’ve been on public radio at least once; I have the picture. Imagine myself as 

the microphone’s contact plate. I’m stuck transferring vibrations while you pipe. I’m 

enmeshed, caged in the wiry coil, shouting to the host “ask her the question!” Living 

 

for another, is your greatness stifled? Your worms, neatly canned? This summer, I pursue my 

interests: watching rotisserie chicken and eating talk shows. I’m an untethered pug. The baby 

keeps changing the channel. Jerry Springer, talk show mediator, dead at 79. I imagine you’ll 

lament “mediated is a strong word,” while I pray for the family and baby Peri (who will never be.)