I douse myself
in faucet water, water
from well
to faucet, from well
to hose. I wear
my girl skin, let loose
cotton underpants hang from
our wooden swing set, built
by the only men who’ve ever
loved me. No one is here now
so I wear hose water, I hose
myself down, open my mouth
open my legs I taste our mountain
from inside out. I dress in water,
hints of metal, all the well picks up
deep earth of family taken like weight,
all pressure against this rusted metal ring.
Green plastic hose, I rope myself. I drink
I hose I wrap my lips around it, fill
my cheeks until I feel the want, my skin
craving burst, my mouth so open so full
so dripping I choke I laugh I cry no one
is here to hear me. To mirror me affirm
me I am not seen so I dress in well
water I dress this wrinkled skin in metal
bits earth bits O I want the well, its depth—
I cry into it, the hose my mouth all
choked tears all tongue and mineral
and bare I want to wear water wear
mountain I want it all back—give me
a family I can fix. I drink her in I stay
this way until I leak laughter, become all
I wanted. Spent, I take my full self
to the tub, I wear the faucet, open myself
to the faucet I leave the door open I wear
the door and while I’m at it I wear my parents
yes.
I wear it all. I live like this alone: a cackle
a scream a body full and waking, all water.