No Man’s Land

In my favorite dream we sit in citrus,

an actual grapefruit sky,

palms of blood

oranges, bare feet in sweet

onion grass.

Grass gives me no

panic here,

I smoke absently & delight in

the crackle of the joint’s heart,

the little fire in my fingers.

We dance in warm storms,

grey skies cut through with yellow melon,

hearts opened & wore for umbrellas.

We live, oh do we live, in this saccharine mecca.

We hold hands—intimacy, bitches.

We eat our own hearts out.

We never cry. There is nothing here

for tears—not one of us has felt a prick

of pain. Here I never learned to flinch

but I sing with the best of the finches.

I fly in a murder

of crows. At night I outglow

the most supple moon, outshoot all

the living & dying stars.

I break apart Orion’s belt

& build myself a house.

In my favorite dream I’m an impregnable ghost—

no man has ever touched me.

I keep cherries in my ovaries

& eat them at my own leisure, plant

the pits in the womb of the world.