i’m asking myself  “how am i going to cut

the cord?” there’s no point in velocity

if you aren’t going to grip onto

something sharp. i used to put fireworks 

in my mouth & let my lover light them.

the forest was full of frog skeletons.

we ate poison berries. swallowed 

clouds like pastry. there is always 

the thing around your ankle. a string

or a strand of yarn. my mother used to

knit me pairs of eyes i could use

if i wanted to see a softer universe.

i have plushie dreams & plushie sadness.

the scissors are imperative though.

you should always have an escape ready.

danger is measured in backyards 

& electric wires & random phone numbers

calling to ask if you have time to be 

a ferry tonight. i carry bodies to & from

my mouth. we arrive in a parking lot

& i root in my glove box. nothing sharp.

how do you look a man in the eyes 

& say, “will you please wait

for me to be armed?” he doesn’t wait.

he snips a strand of your hair 

& keeps it for himself. the trail 

is overgrown with wild berries & 

thorny bushes. there has got to be

a pair somewhere. inside, i run

with my bare hands. the day shaves me

down to the bone. the man says,

“it’s just us.” i think of the fireworks

& my lover & i can’t remember

whose idea it was. mine or his. 

i do not kiss him. my mouth is

the scissors i don’t have. outside

squirrels cut holes in the coming night.

my escape is not so seamless.