Sometimes I pull a mountain
over me like a coat, or
sink into a pocket of
the earth. Other times
I cry in the steam room
at the gym. The heat
nesting in my chest,
musky droplets running
down the tiles, genitals
poking through the rough curtain
of a towel. I’m a sudden geyser
of need. It’s not that I have
something to cry about,
I just become liquid without
becoming liquid.
During COVID, I walked
through my neighborhood with
pressure pooling behind my eyes,
as though the vacancy
of everything had made me
the world’s point of focus.
Blank-faced buildings
and sidewalk convexed
around me in a fish-eye tilt.
I made it half a block
and saw a cardboard sign
that read, together, peeking
through the unlit window of a house.
It was that or the splintered
frost digging through my coat
that doubled me over. I was
a skinned moon shivering
inches above the curb.
I’d never admit this, but
when I’m in the steam room,
what I’m really hoping
is that someone will
open the door and walk in.