high & lonesome

I.
my dreams are a polished piece of beach glass;
they inhabit the house in which i was born.
usually, the house is a third story flat
above a dangerous intersection in providence,
a city south of the caucasus,
but east of the kuban river.

at times, the floors are an arctic tundra
at others, a sun-bleached boardwalk.
sometimes when beach grass grows from the floor boards,
i pick mussels from the shallows
and eat only what i scavenge.

sometimes i murder the big fish,
weaving rigs with lead sinkers
or hooking herring by the spine.

i was born this way,
and i know exactly what i'm doing.


II.
i am a polished piece of beach glass
and i like you only when submissive;
you're too nervous and wild to run,
falling frequently at the gate.
if only you could see the inside rail,
the polished beach glass on the shore.

when i was born, my mother-
herself a polished piece of beach glass,
crouched amongst the reeds and listened
for the sounds of an accident below.

i was not an accident.
i was ready to be born.
when my edges were jagged,
my mother rubbed me
between her thumb and forefinger
so that i'd be polished too.

this is how i was made,
and i know exactly what i'm doing.