I want to give something that hurts,

like Gandhi, or Buddha,

or Mayor Bloomberg.

I want to pretend I've been

lost in the woods. I want people

to believe the bear attacks I survived

and the trees that I felled. I want to order

for the man waiting next to me

in line at Starbucks, who is helplessly

reading and rereading the menu,

as if he's never heard of Mocha Frappuccinos

or Ancient Grain Flatbreads.

I want to move to Lake Charles, Louisiana,

the kind of place where people take notice

of new neighbors but are apprehensive

to greet them. I want to clip your weight.

You’re always hovering above me,

 tethered with the words I never say,

anger I thought I’d let pass.

I want to take scissors to us

and watch you drift away.

I want to never drink again.

I want thirst to be a waste of time.

I want to figure out if my apartment building

has an office. I want to see if it contains happiness.

I want my body to grow like a river,

narrow, then wide, then endlessly.