Intercourse

In the dream, someone betrays me or I am betrayed. I want
to be the woman bereft and clutching her dearest keepsake.
I have no memories, no altars. For heirlooms I have bad rayon
and shredded cotton from H&M, one pilled sweater. A mother


never braided my hair into black stations. Instead, a landscape swells
with creatures, a rotten tumor in an ambling quadruped’s joint.
A carriage of organs bound tightly by a cerulean film. I love like
nobody can betray me, like I’m a girl emptied of values, a dumb


malignant seed in a cab to the airport, a flat fee, a hand up the
thigh of a buckled lap. In a decade, I am a landscape only. I hold
asanas to release my hamstrings, an area where I’m told we store
our grief. Where in our body is not grief? Time tires us out. This


is why we invented it, so we might form from ends. I roll lactic
bubbles under my face with rose quartz, fuck a pillow in sleep.
In my body I am not alive. I am weather in a landscape, juiced
blue films, pockets of tangy heat, blood networks like an Internet


returning to epicenter. Shit, acid, nitrates. Gurgles miraculous.
I dream in a lonely passage of sodium and potassium blinking
open. Chains of work without rhetoric or pasture or gravity or love.
I consider some last questions. A factory blooms. I would die without you.


Read on . . .

On Homesickness,” a poem by Sarah Ruhl


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