of pulling September’s steak tips from
a bag of peas in the freezer. On his lips
one hundred blue petals, dried flowers
from the bottom of a former lover’s vase.
He licks his fingers, touches the hairs
of milled tree trunk in each page.
I wait, a flood runs from my mouth complete
with a rusted Honda Civic—the windows
all busted. My veins sprout to link my temples
to an electric socket. I black out and then
the most angelic resurgence of light. …
He tells me I have become
an example of Žižek—The unreal, we are
fascinated by the unreal. I reach for my back
molar, turn it to the right and braid
my hair. If I am unreal, I whisper, you must
be as real as my hair, which I will cut
with these scissors. You tell me: Cut it
short. I’ve always wanted to know if I could make
love to a boy I’ve always known was a woman.
