To be an anchoress                  is to be a bleach bath
      is to do something                                             big in six minutes
              until you can manage half hours alone
          the need to be embedded              in a cottage with a baby
      adopted from Michigan            or Nicaragua
confused when cicadas            don’t whip summer’s end.
 
No one but me             cares so much about rain
        the pink photo album               the ski lift in June.
No one but me                         lies when I say
    I’ll let you know if I know anyone.
 
I lie when I say                         I have destination
    it feels like a block                    of sex insurmountable
the ghost of the storm             that never comes on.
    They say it’s best to have fear of death
            religion when everything’s maimed.
 
Bougainvillea hysteria              I fail the I.Q. test
     my greasy chest pains             one big love boom
clowns drawn on the window                            of the institution
        the crush of the day     my skull’s destination
        cicadas so desperate     to find a mate
 
               and the deadball fat kid
               hanging on the porchswing
               entwined by diamondbacks
 
                   is the Captain Black   of whatever I am
                   stuck in the back of this van.

–Jessie Janeshek