Bloom

I want a lover who will bring me small useless things. A keychain from Roswell. A lollipop with a scorpion in it. A magnet in the shape of a state. It turns out—I can forgive almost anything, so far. I think of words that sound the same but mean different things. Refuse (refuse), lie (lie), entrance (entrance). How wind can wind. I have a certain kind of nature; if left alone, and wet, a cloth of kerosene may burst into flame. I hold onto the idea that people can change over time. That perhaps, still, I am what they call a late bloomer. Sometimes I get a word caught in my mouth, a word like forsythia or vertebrae. If you listen closely to the lyrics of disco, so many seethe with refusal. Disco has much to do with pointing as you dance—THIS is what I will do, says the pointing. The pointing of a finger extends a body beyond its space. Takes up the air. Affirms what is.

Read more from Issue 19.2.