When I build a city on the Mississippi,
there's an egret gliding through the air.
She crosses the river then circles back
and lands on a piece of sunlight.
In my city, many buildings surround the egret.
Many clouds sit on the buildings.
There are many ways to predict the weather.
When my head feels light, it rains on Monday.
When the sun returns, the phone rings.
It's my sister saying hello. She's putting
a bullet in my brain. There's no time
for twilight. Or a certain pill has my name
on it, but there's no time to swallow.
I'm on a balcony looking at the Mississippi
like a pill with nowhere to go.
Once I was the luckiest bird in the world
and still I wanted to be something else.
I wanted to be a weightless architect
who finds her mirrored windows on fire.
Once it was a Monday, and I was an egret
holding my red glass breath, not knowing
how to be burned alive. Someone said,
we need water to put out the fire. Soon
water became scarce, water was the new oil.
We remembered how it used to rain.
Each dot on the street was a new idea
until all the dots became one big wet.
Now it's Monday, and when I see an egret,
my tongue flattens. A white stain waves
good-bye very slowly. I hear a voice
on the phone. It's my sister saying hello.
When I deny having a sister, the sun
burns her skin. When I deny it's spring,
rain begins to fall. When twilight arrives,
my city on the Mississippi begins to
disappear. I wave good-bye to the egret.
I'm ready for the pluvial air.