Brooklyn Glitter Girl

Broken glitter girl

held my heart in her hands. That’s why I kept crying and staying up

all night gluing back together

aortas and arteries and arterial glands

after they were murdered

alongside children in elementary schools

in Pakistan, in Connecticut, in Palestine,

someone’s mother falling from windows

or trapped in flipped-over-trains

I can stand in front of Capricorn

holding my heart with my broken face

and say my heart was murdered with them

and she can run her hands

along my contours

and say How soft,

how smooth,

how open.

The Fourth Time I was Told “No”

“I just need to know,”

April says, grabs my face

and kisses me and desire

dissipates like a dandelion’s petiole in the breeze.

We’re walking home from a nightclub in Australia.

Brighter, more cloud filled

she’s wearing a red dress, she says,

“I’m not a demi god,” and desire

is a tsunami

and it wipes out an entire fucking town.

We’re on a boat in Sydney and April

tickles my head and I

feel it in my toes. We’re smoking

on the porch and I say, “Maybe

we should just be friends.”

“It’s too late for that,

Sara,” April says,

“Your face smells like my vagina.”

I’ll Meet You At The Lie

I’ll meet you at the lie,

she said, at the corner

where your real self

and social requirements

intersect.

I can’t come with you in your dreams, she said,

but I do dream about you.

But can that really be me

flashing down a neuropathway

in your cerebellum?

Where is grace? Where are you, grace?

How can I be real with a beer in one hand

and a cell phone in the other?

Wearing a pair of wedges, for godssake grace

come inside. Am I in the right time zone?

Sunlight? Did you see me

shaking?

Does it help that the people you love

look just like the people on the subway

if you only watch their hands?