print previewback NICOLE HOMER
The shortest sentence in my autobiography is one word
after Jeff Whitney
please: there is no sating
here: there is enough and not enough:
prom dresses cluster together
in the front yard like a pack of wild dogs
who want to be petted into submission or
frenzy: a hand that is not my hand summons
both: later a hand that is my hand
does the same: I ask is it possible to beg
your own body: swallow a mouthful of amber
beer of dark liquor of smoke and nod:
of course it is: the body is a conversation: sometimes
when I think of quiet I confuse it with death: I sleep
not silent or silenced: I have let another mouth
take my fingers into it: I have wandered into the land
of yes and now: I have picked locks with my tongue:
can a body trespass on its own land: I asked
a body to keep me safe and I woke up years later
still asking: I want: I want: I want: Sometimes
a prayer is too much like begging for a respectable god
to answer: I curtsy like I was taught and wait
for the dogs to come home: tell me how to make you
smile: or let me guess until something clicks
open: 
One of us is still alive and will prove it.
The shortest sentence in my autobiography is one word