By Keisha-Gaye Anderson

Each restless body
treading this lake of time
roaming this amnezia
looking to own
the place
where clay was
spoken into arms
and legs
and these encrusted hearts
creates a tidal wave
of noise and neon
smoke and sewage
violation and rationalization
that spins us ’round
a creaking wheel
perpetual and
tiny as a peephole

It
must
stop.

Do not
keep trickling into
the box
of breath and motion
just to
desire
and acquire
and then
leave the same
way that you came
every time

Open the door
call her name
she who laughs tides into motion
blinks mountains skyward
to touch billowy skirts
blows kisses into
babies’ giggles
and makes senses savor
every last herb in the pot

She is the voice waking
in your dreams
promising you
that the face in mirror
is not real
that you are not really here
that you can come home
anytime
if you want
if you’re ready
to hold on to each other
each and every one
and swim to the very bottom
deep into the dark
let every accessory
float away
and remember that only you
can find
your true name