You Don’t Wash Your Hair Now

I speak to fruits,

ask the grapes

if I should miss you.

I swallow their stems,

little twigs, in the hope

they’ll grow into some envelopment

that will rock me

to sleep. I can’t sleep

in this knowing,

your settled dust

on my body.

My body, no longer

your home. I house

myself. So much space

for aimless touches.

So much skin

untouched. Here

is where we kissed,

and here, and here.

And here, my call

to warp us:

how many gods

I have kept myself

from being.