This Time Next Year 

By

I will snap my driver’s license in two and try to forget 

where it came from. I won’t smile in my next photo. 

I will stop being palatable to the apparatus of the state  

and adopt a new state to tell myself I’m safe  

in this body. My hands are still sticky with honey  

drawn in the shape of the Battle of San Jacinto 

on a biscuit in 2005. I will wash them off  

in the Rio Grande and leave my footprints  

among the ancient snakes and fossils  

and someone might remember I was never  

supposed to be here in the first place.  

This time next year I will head down south 

and light sparklers on the beach and watch 

them crawling towards the sky. And I will not think 

about the witch hunts or the borderlands 

(I am always thinking about the witch hunts 

and the borderlands). I live this year in a house 

of bones and scattered ashes. This time next year 

I will build my body back up from PVC pipe 

and lead paint. I will sink my teeth into heavy metals, 

and I will melt off my finger prints. I’ll become toxic 

to the touch and I will revel in this modern leprosy.  

This time next year I will move out west  

and start a new life on the coast of utopia. 

I will drink the water every time and wait 

until blood becomes more metal than liquid. 

And then I will see that it is good, 

and I will rest.