DOCTOR SONG
BABY GIRL Has Her Say
Heenayni
There is love in a hotel that
is not home.
In the space between people is beauty.
I have one interface. You have another face.
I have a young thomas I will show you in a photo I will send you.
Let us be in a hotel where I don’t know nothing.
Let us be in a movie where you lick it up a grin.
I am young.
I am thomas as an experiment in ageless.
I am an experiment in homeless hotel life interface.
Chat with me, my phone number as apology.
I will take your body a pill.
I will make the whole done.
This is beauty, a bed, a restful
awkward sale. Lie with me and chat.
How beautiful this hotel is, like a movie.
My dollar, your eyes
full of only the thomas of mine.
On each side, a sobbing doctor. You may call
it siblings but you lisp. I am more alone than you possibly
know and you know nothing.
It’s the chlorine that made me so yellow.
This is how I please him and his expansion
of well-sexed capillaries. Butterfly, breast
stroke, freestyle and I am completely
understanding.
These doctors.
They act abolished but they are well together,
stitched on the insides like robot dogs.
It is me coming loose in a dress.
It is my hair a sibyl and my breath a gasp.
It’s really very pretty tightly.
Take a picture. I just don’t care.
Swimming itself is a kind of psychosis—
you return and return to the scene of the choke.
But I have learned to manage breathing in this
row of physician.
…I am almost imagined to be perfect by strangers.
Here I am, your fondest lugnut,
a shifting kitty towards the star of you
floating across a constellation of tattoo,
the firmament. I am firmly. I am yours.
Heenayni, Here I Am. Here I am, God.
I love you. I swear I’m not hiding.
I don’t know where that palm frond came from.
I’m all yours.
Your drifting sheep-herder. Your pile of wool.
I know, I know. I know what you’re thinking.
I got a bit caught up in the fratricide.
But I felt like I was glowing barium I was so findable,
his blood an x-ray through my blood.
He bloodied my indignant before he fell,
but I held on to the squint.
I went South. I didn’t forward the mail.
But I was just waiting for my next instruction.
I thought that last arson was my sign.
So I stayed in Arizona. I wasn’t hiding.
I was listed. I was in Tempe.
I was washing dishes.
Maybe you couldn’t find me for the suds:
it was all kind of squeaky for awhile there.
But I’ve returned, your mistrial,
your yellow morning cake.
Heenayni. As you know, I was never gone.
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