This weight deceives like ghosts.
I sleep, wrapped in cream chiffon pulled taut
against my ballooning torso.
I wake, gasping at diaphanous hands wringing
stiff, after resting on layers
of desert sage micro-hairs
and poorly constructed nests
in my dream states devoid of recourse.
My skin feels foreign—
sticky and sad.
It possesses the gleam of linoleum
and I shout at it until it burns the deep red
of the Armenian rugs I lay on in lieu of
lifting my iron legs. Useless.
Useless to love me with all your pretended might
and severe kisses.
drift off to another packed theater;
another liquor-fueled passion, after
with the next passing moon.