Lately, I’ve been yearning for things: car keys,
houseplants, dhurries, cubes of ice, petals,
but really for something skin-deep. I keep 
addressing myself as we; like I am the bull 
& I am the matador. I am the prayer and 
the devotee. We are prying open our mouths
to sing. We are the ear and we are the song.
We are two rundown radios talking 
in a frequency none of us knows 
how to reach, let alone emit our rightful sounds.
I’m trying to be someone other than me.
I’m trying to be the woman who shucks
oysters clean. Dredges them from 
the depths of the sea with her bare teeth.
I’m trying to be her gold tooth, her
one and only, mended with the light
of the auric sun. Changing the form
of what’s obscene in me. Filigreeing 
my fucking bones. All the crops
of all the lands genuflecting 
to the bright brag of me.