I Want


If the hillside cracked and showed me its bones.
If the ripped sky revealed its corsets and undershirts.

Cactus to live inside me, shade to be South Tucson’s
Mexican restaurants I creep into at noon
out of the concrete sun.

I can be a terrifying skull of a daughter who poisons
the little spring in the forest.

But don’t let me fool you. If you have never had children
you would understand. I want to be your child,

and the garage to sleep and let go of its car. To sleep without
the smell of the engine and the oil drip.

If I could swim salt and fish, I would want.

I want to be your car.
I want you to show me the roads you took in Italy.
Shine a light on everything that hurts me.

Summer will save me with its wet blue chair.