& she leans, takes my knee in her mouth, like a puppy. this is her song. I am a pale mountain from her native landscape. she moans & it is my name. it is not sexy, it is sexual. my blue wrist suckled in her other mouth is an enchilada. I think about how my car won’t sell on Craigslist. I think about how ill‐prepared I am to do my taxes. she can tell my mind is elsewhere. she doesn't mind. she sucks a peach. I take her photograph & it is a Selfie. there are so many ways to need yourself. a faint nipple through the bubbles. she has no reason to hide from me. we are sisters in the army of almost. it is the way we flirt. we are never bored. Bjork uses a can‐opener to open the bathwater. it’s working.she slides my mental hospital evaluation papers into the water, so they dissipate into tiny paper fish. this is her song. I am a mossy stone remembering its past life as a bird. she names every doctor who never met my eye. it is not political, it is a curse. my chest is an ivy wall replenished by her hacking hands. I think about how I threw up the bad medicine. I think about being told to just swallow it. she can tell I am reliving the neon isolation of mind‐jail. she doesn't flinch. just sucks a jawbreaker. I see her tongue change color & exhale a fuck of rivers. there are so many ways to crown yourself. a perfect nipple glaciers thru. she has no reason to judge me. we are sisters in the queendom of Self. it is the way we work. we are sweetened sweat. Bjork puts a straw to my forehead & drinks the suds. it’s lovely.her eyes are truth wagons chugging along ancient dirt.