from I Am Going To Save Your Life
by Christie Ann Reynolds
Be my sister and spit into me.
Or spit into me so you can be my sister.
I’m hollowed out and its high time the coyotes hauled
out from the woods and gave mothers a good run for their babies.
They smell the way I smell between.
It took eleven minutes for me to lose my virginity.
He said thank you.
If I were a zombie, you would not be a zombie.
You would be the first time I touched myself
on a bicycle. Or the dynasty in China with all the white
and blue vases. I keep fucking up in love and not even by fucking.
I think of friends, O my good and tiny friends in Nate’s seaside house.
How easily friends laugh, and their ha-ha’s slide over from the summer into September.
We watch zombie movies that show zombies touching.
We discuss relativity and space and we beat off to the flowers
until no one knows the difference between us and the sun.
Why can’t we be just be holiday worshippers?
I believe in flowers.
I trust that most lives
are not worth the same amount as mine.
One more hour of spotting who it is on the message board. Can’t we all just shit
ammunition and blow ourselves up before they do?
I want you to revisit that time you were almost raped, done in for, and ask yourself,
how else could your life have ended?
Could someone else’s light have split you apart?
Your insides left shining in contrast to the dry, dry leaves.
Given the way my hands react to snow,
I’ll never be a three time champion skier.
My death is imagined in icicles.
You pull at my hair and expect me to like it sexy that way.
I say, push me in the snow—
Given the way my hands react,
my bare ass will probably harden into a statue version of my ass.
The possibility of becoming famous ends in the snow after a car wreck.
I’m not sure how we crash or if its my fault or if you skid in the snow to avoid an a real
live deer that stands there, velvet as the day it was born.
Given the way you reacted to the crunch of tires, you’ll accept the fact
that I’ve never been tempted to go down on you while driving.
Gun smoke is sexy wafting over breasts and I think you’d agree.
Buildings that sway a little are dangerous.
Nothing that big should move.
O building with all your little people in it, listen to the wind pass over your visitor’s holes.
There is Paige with so many just in one foot.
There is Ben with so many you can see all of what’s behind him.
He stands like a little stencil against the fan and fireflies buzz
through his chest space. He could be a Vietnamese
lantern and I could be his lady pitching tent in the yard, using his hair as a handle.
I think too, that the very heart of all matters is not the heart but the weather.
Ever see anyone smiling in the rain? Yes I have too, but it isn’t because of the rain.
Achieving tenderness isn’t as easy as waking up a child
when you’ve already been a woman for so many years.
You’ve forgotten what a chest feels like without breasts.
The doctors say I’ve got a few cysts and they are tender as the forearm of a child
being held by a rough woman. I said, I am tender and easy and just a little bit afraid
of being opened up like a cupboard and my father looking in and saying
where were you thinking of going, so young and cystic and tender.
Without breasts I could remain exactly who I was when he left.
Everything happens a little too fast, in the way rain
can look isosceles when it falls too fast from the sky.
You know I’m telling the truth when my arm hairs stand on end.
Kate is vanishing a little every day because she’s lost a piece of her insides.
I want to stick her back together with tape and yell, pretty pretty piñata girl. I want to say Kate, little girl yellow, come out from the meadow, the cows are all dead. But it happens too fast, the sinking of a cigarette tip in a mouth, the exhale, the vaporous cloud of breath
and monoxide. There is only you. There is only everyone moving a little faster,
a human wheel, a Gravitron. I am hurling over the side to keep my stomach.
I see balloons when we kiss. I see Bianca with fish instead of hands and she is gelatinous.
She moves all over when she walks because she is also part ocean. Dan is worried about fucking up another summer with his fucking
and everyone moves as fast as ticker tape in the rain
to mimic all that he wants to do to her and himself. My friends
are like hollowed out trees in an evening of prom dresses. Scrape, scrape
goes all the taffeta and borrowed shoes as Ben stands alone in the gymnasium,
a tornado in his pants, a tornado in the space between his glasses and eye.
He is pinpointing the depression lines along his forehead with T pins.
He has stolen Kate’s stomach. He has pressed the stop button on Dan’s fucking. Bianca is arrested inside of a glass. I enter Kate’s cottage of flesh. I suck Bianca’s ocean into a straw.