Give me a young rock star—cold-handed, paper-
skinned and with a stiff upper lip. Call me muse
or storyteller. I will offer sips of beer and my arm
against yours. Drink, and be much obliged.

Here is a black hole. The anti-matter and
Einstein’s spacetime bend and net about us.
Here is you: this spot on that continent. Spin
the globe in the spirit of manifest destiny
and tell me where to take you in the next
minutes or hours.

I collect voices, names, faces, the song that you
sing. I collect bones and cast yours onto my bed
of course—the dream bed, the sorting of memory
bed. The future, well, here I am and will be
or not be.

Just you stand, young man, your soft shoulders,
my old world hands, someone else’s guitar, your
angry tongue. Stand but do not stand. You will
find me again leaned in corners or darkened
spaces, darker still.


The pack of wild men dances with arms up,
chests out, teeth flashed. You there in the center,
yes you. That white T-shirt and the view from
upstairs—howl, as they say.

Around we go, the hip hop beats on, we beat
on, feet stuck, slipping, moving, hips stuck,
slipping, moving.

I declare you, man, the owner of moves: first,
last, your lips on my neck, my curves and yours,
words just words, my lips, yes, mine.

I declare myself woman—the resistance until
what will be. You loved someone else before.
Remember? Let’s not be alone, man, man. Say
it with me.