I know this because I so want to dance in yr chorus. Want to whisper shit so sweet in yr ear, the center of 1989 will rot and fall out, and through that hole an eleven-year-old me will see her True Name on the nape of yr neck and know how to break-dance. My deer, I think I’ve been learning this sidestroke all my life to slam-dunk my apple in yr basket and really rock out in this slow lagoon with you, and I want to be so “Girl” for you that I get all “Yeah” with my bubblegum baby-making machine, like I want to mermaid up inside yr Cultural Memory
to fight off Tom Hanks and Hasbro. Like, hey boy, I want to fly up inside yr Men’s Grooming Kit
and die there so I know how it feels to be yr thing: scented and clipped with safety scissors and get
so lost in yr Man Cave I need you to invent a new legend for the map made of footprints that teach me to foxtrot, where I bend over the hot oven in my butter colored frock and make muffins that make make muffins that make banana nut muffins
and rename me in a pile of your sweet laundry that is sooo dirty but won’t do itself, dumpling.
The Afterlife as a Pile of My Lost Vintage Blazers
among which we must eternally rifle: the worms inching blind down the wales of the corduroy, my ghost turning out all the pockets. She must piece this together. This project the worms
must undo, pressing their wet mouths into elbow patches, undermining the plaid and mothing the wool. My ghost tries to try on the jackets. The shoulders don’t fit because she has no shoulders. Is this is the hell of being immaterial on a mountain of material? In life I mourned the loss of my blazers,
left on the backs of chairs, the backs of taxis.
In the afterlife they fall right through me. Sometimes little things fall out: knotted cherry-stems, cough drop wrappers, eighty-three cents, a gas receipt, and once, a matchbook
with something scribbled inside: “Karyna, you wasted so much of my time. Burn this.”