Apartment 102

In Anatolia,

my hands are cracked

with clotted river clay.

In Egypt,

I am a long-necked queen

perched highly

over peacocks.


In Berlin,

I watch the boxcars

grumble down the icy tracks

and pray

that no one calls today.

If I could slip
beneath the great southwestern sands
and curl with the cicadas,
cool and dreaming,


if I could surface anywhere in time,

I think that I would surface

in the kitchen, sipping bitter beer

with stocking feet

and thrift store counter clutter

back when we lived in the apartment
with the green door

and I fell asleep
when you did.