I doze with the lights on,
curled up on marble tile
next to my hanging laundry.

I see my world for what it is—
too tired to be
so normal.

Wafts of lavender greet me gaily
and I air myself out on the tile floor.
With my ear, like this,

I can hear the ocean bellow.
The waves rise up
and I’m sailing now,

using my body as leverage.
The wind in my pocket
& my breath is the rudder,

I find delight in drowning.
The increased oxygen
is extra thrilling

their eyebrows massage my body—
I see questioning glances
& hurried worry &

I become a fish
in this wide ocean.
The black they wear, not believe

this sea of tears wept
for the benefit of
whom (?) –

I cling to a blackness
only angels can see.

The fluorescents do their best
to love my nuanced civility
and I reach to them with fingertips;

the lights are of angels
and I can hear them whisper,
they sing to me & I nod my mind.

The waves are our friends,
and the gates are opening.
I approach, so quiet,

but they squeeze shut—
I’m pushed back,
into ocean tides too strong to surf.

My strength I reserve
for the carving of obstinacy
inherited through wars and

trigger fingers.
The windows won’t close,
I tell the angels.

They try to help me
but our combined efforts
make us too hungry,

so the windows stay open.
I can’t help the whispers like silk
for they are a part of me

I don’t greet hello.
So angels & I dance shadow puppets
against the grainy moon platform,

we giggle into skin sleeves
& decorate ourselves in tattooed
exhaustion, wave after wave—

too tired to be so normal.
The windows can stay open
forever I say;

the angels shall accompany me to the gates.
We can fall together,
seeking solace in company,

our clouds wave hello
from the depths of consciousness.

The reader brings his or her own experience to the poem and creates meaning. Here is my mine:

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