It’s too early for me to be awake
so I pick your hair
out of the shower drain
and let the water run hot enough
to burn my skin.
I keep dreaming that I sit across the table from God
and we talk slowly
about the size of the desert
while touching legs underneath the table.
My pride sits against my spine
full and heavy,
so I lean forward to let my disks bend
and to let it crawl out between my chapped lips
that hurt in the Arizona sun.
In the afternoon,
my father points out
state penitentiaries in every city
that we pass by
and I hate his precision
but secretly like the glow of yellow
from the high windows
and imagining the texture of an inmate’s hand
and his voice
as he cries in a very small space
like I have been doing my entire life
when nobody is ever really that lonely.
At night,
the wind chimes smash together to make a sound
that reminds me of church bells
and I like how you kiss me on the mouth
and I swear to God that I saw your head on a city bus
yesterday moving south
against crooked lines
that resembled your teeth
when I haven’t actually seen you in weeks
and I feel okay now.