by Claire
mainly: cars that run
on saltwater and a new
word for what we call
poetry. could you imagine
florida underwater? I fall
asleep an hour and dream
of a girl with a planet in
place of her head. she asks
are you the kind of person
who hotboxes your camry or
are you the kind of person who
puts on a jackie wilson song
and gets out to slowdance in
the parking garage? and I say
I don’t know, and her face
clouds. it’s not what you said,
it’s how you said it, she says. what is
that supposed to mean. I press my palm
to the dust and stratosphere. did you
even notice I got a new moon, she
says. it is so hard to say the
right thing or even to touch her
cheek. I should love her how she
is but some days I wish it were some
thing easier to fathom: a volcano
a river a banyan tree. we pull
up my old quilt and she rests her
planet on one side of my chest, and I
fall asleep and dream of a
girl with giant seaweed for
legs: silk fronds four stories
long around which I hook my
legs hard just as a wave comes
in and her hips bend and the
water pulls us toward pacific
cliffs.