I risk the kitchen cabinets flying open, china cracking to the floor,
shards ready to spill my blood’s swiftness.
I risk electrical fires with frayed cords
and when the disposal switch is mistaken for the light switch, I stay.
I risk that my heart might lie, hidden in the rotaried darkness.
I peel my life away: a potato skinned,
shavings on the countertop.
I dream I wear my hair long,
always laughing; a picture to hang on the wall
with legs that open wide.
Others stain themselves with my smoke
and minutes of my hours. They think
I have met destiny and declared him sinewy,
raw with charisma to spare.
But when I wake, there is still this wrestling.
