As per the book on desert decor, I’m working
to bring the inside out and the outside in: twill blanket
in the hammock, aloe blade
angled in the kitchen in its clay pot. Small stuff,
but of course I aspire to more: projector
and screen out back, pebbled shower floor. I want to park
my car in my bedroom. I want to change clothes
in the street. I want an outdoor toothbrush
and an indoor billboard PSA for condoms. It’s definitely striking
that some people believe exposing a partner to illness
without their knowledge should constitute
a Class A felony, while others view it
as rectifiable by bouquet. I’ll never
publish this; you’ll never know my stance.
You’ll never know whether my allegiance belongs
to the translation of Matthew in which Christ says SELL
WHAT YOU OWN or if it belongs to the arguably
more encompassing SELL ALL. The seedling
cactus grows spikes-first, like the world
coming at us at once, rain of arrows over a mudbrick wall—
