Someone once said that insanity was doing the same thing over and over while expecting a different result.
I think this person must have been a man.
I think this person must have had a wife who wanted too big.
I want to tell you about early morning. When the lights aren’t up yet. When I lean my body out the window into the thick soup of the city, and everything is, again, just beginning.
This is the moment right before the Wish:
When he walks in about to say something
that will shatter me.
The plan before the punch line.
The air a thrown pie sails through. The dark you sit in as the spotlight searches for your skin
(When you are nearly nothing, when your heart is not a poem or a symbol or a theme song—
but an organ, that is heavy and mostly tired.)
This is bringing teaspoon to pursed lips.
The sharp intake before the unraveling,
When I want to weep,