american sonnet mini-sequence (terrance hayes inspired)

I wake up dream dreaming gunk from my eyelids.

Pieces of remembering: the boy who rolls his bicycle

across the courtyard has not spoken. I see

the dining hall rebuilt, the walls more solid than the portraits.

Failed faces with my head too heavy with eye gunk to rise.

I sleep and I wake awaiting the dream.

The separation between two neither one more solid

than the courtyard or the portraits. I see the bicycle as

it rolls down the center of my spine. The tracks are repetitive.

Tongue clicking without any words to say eye gunk. I can’t

tell the boy that the boy he was before was more solid.

There is a space between the dining hall and the mind

that the bicycle can’t quite fit through.

 ---

Chica is what you call me even as my skin disintegrates into

small islands of slimy green moss. Chica,

you hold them in your hands, slip your fingers

between cracks. You pull infection closer.

Puckering on your skin, a kiss. Chica.

We will never really touch, we can never really touch

our selves. Chica is a selva of trees. They all look the same,

and I can’t remember any of their latin names. I call them

lila, pedro, mariana, but none of them answer.

I know one of them is you. I am the only tree that is not a tree.

When the wind passes, it almost sounds like it is saying Chica.

I convince myself I hear your voice.

 ---

I am waiting for the curve of the wave to touch my tongue

like a cornflower petal. I am waiting for the stone inside me

to rot into sunflower seeds and for those sunflower seeds

to be roasted just cool enough not to burn. I am waiting for my shadows

to turn purple so I can string them up like day-of-the-dead flags.

I am waiting on the corner for the light to shine white. I am waiting

for the doors to slide open so I can step safely over the chasm.

I am waiting to feel the shade of beaten eggyolk

cake batter Sunday mornings and sock-footed feet.

I am waiting for the storm to pass like boxes of light

swinging across the ceiling. I am waiting to be the inhale

before I open my mouth. I am waiting to be the expectancy

in the straining hand. I am waiting for the sand.