Self-Portrait with Headphones On

She don’t believe in shootin’ stars,
but she believe in shoes and cars . . .
—Kanye West, “Flashing Lights”

Always growing out my bangs, childhood,

that strange small.

The place written for me

invites me to hoarder and not mother,

so I’m living in this mirrored chest of drawers

called the body—my brother is hidden

in there, next to all of 1996. I have predictions

for my cancer—colon or breast—

a tattoo artist exacting areolas above the dark

canals of my heart.

Yes . . . I spend too much money,

I cheat on everyone I love,

I know what it’s like to desire everything

& nothing at all, the air inside a potato chip bag.

I count the sweaty,

greasy envelopes on my nightstand,

each a letter for every person I’ve wanted & never had.

I don’t trust the guiding powers

of stars, but I do believe

in the Magic 8 Ball of the city, night

the shaken blue inkiness of Signs Point to Yes,

Reply Hazy, Try Again, or

Outlook Not So Good.

My happiness

I can point to on a map—

New Orleans, legs swinging, red stilettos poking

their noses out the window

of Big Daddy’s in the French Quarter, gone

now, torn down. The strippers’

legs perpetually

swinging, each dark fold keeping time.

Source: Karankawa (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2015)