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.