i don't think we'll ever make it to dinner

in someone else’s bed 

i burrow into him

this is stage 2:

the fuzzy stage

earlier we were orange

fish in buckets

your bucket was not 

the same as mine, 

i had lost you already

so from the window 

of a living room 

but not my living room

i launched myself out of an open window

into a bottle, long-necked and green

filled with glass cleaner

it stood upright in the bed of a wagon 

resting in a garden 

two-stories below–

does anyone know where my bedsheets are? 

they’re gray and i

know nothing else except that i am 

looking for them

i guess they’ve been misplaced, left at 

summer camp or in the 

gym locker room or maybe 

at the drive thru

no–-drive by:

where even though I extend 

my arm and claw at the air

desperately

my powers don’t work against 

the big black Cadillac Suburban

barreling through this warehouse

and even when its driver shoots

her in the head

i remember the bullet hole– 

an apple’s blossom– end made flesh

–again they don’t work 

so i am forced to hide among 

the aisles of the local gardening store,

with water

spraying upon

me from the sky like i am 

fresh produce and it

blinds me Thank God

my mommy is here to pick me up

i race to where she idles

in the car-pool lane

tell her to drive fast

but she is preoccupied

turns out that on Wednesdays she gets

fucked by that 

man from the West 

Village who owns 

a purple house with 

guess-the-jackpot-game-show 

doors behind one of which is a

red metal seesaw

it looks serious

turns out i am wearing the 

wrong shoes– 

someone else’s shoes

and my dad is watching from the bleachers