
May my future self betray me
if I live long enough to change.
Untangle one wrist from the clasp of the other
and flee, illuminating nothing.
May the names I assigned to things
no longer fit.
What I call land will bleed out beneath her feet,
and what I call law will soften in her hot, living hand
like a piece of ice,
a drop of water.
Enter history if I am a myth.
If I'm history, I'm not going to mention myth.
That's the issue: we use the same few words
over and over again, as if each one signified something different.
"Stay," a voice begs, and I freeze.
Is this what it means?
How will she react
When I ask her to run?
What good would a history do her in the first place -
what good would this tight, foolish narrative?
If I live long enough to no longer touch
terrain I don't yet confess fertile with my hands
may my future self term it so
and get to her feet.
This is what it means.
