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It was almost working. I wiggled the zipper down
to see a shed of light, lifted my body out of my bag.
Nothing felt frozen. The capitalism spreading my legs
was warm to the touch. I walked down a corridor.
I could see the white fur of my cheeks, felt for my skin
the way one touches their side to confirm their purse
is safe and there. There was this distant sense that I was
safe and there. The doctors left. A biologist slept
in the dirt of her sleeping. The men, the men.
A nun had left herself in her sculpture of habit,
only then did I stare at anyone. She met my gaze.
The gaze held an airport inside it, and there
we paced. The emperor of all maladies responded
to my grief of the gone-men with a tome of scientific
apology. When uncle woke up with a headache
in which he felt numb all over. When C died in chemo.
Diseases desperate grown by desperate appliance...
My desperate gown in my desperate stadium.
Go easy on me, nun, I woke inside a duffelbag I was
desperate for a desperate touch. I want to hold Mike
accountable for holding my head to his dick
until the puke choked me too. But the rapist he died
with the grace of a lover. He died a fireman.
The men, the men. So me and a nun and the warehouse
I died in. My vaccine is an apology capable
of infuriating. My virus is an apology capable of further
apology. My apology is a tautology and I beg
in the hum of regret like a cluster of bad cells.
Badlands. I rewrite an origin story in which a snake
swallows a mango composed of bad cells. The bad cells
metastasize. They are very sorry. The mango tears through
itself to tear through the snake to cunt itself into a cunt.
Thus, the women live without men. My cunt expands
like the word abuse on the tongue of a nun.
The nun puts her hand on my shoulder. They’re gone.
Now I am rich. I have a private cheetah I’ve trained
to dance on the safe of a bank. I am the richest girl in the world.