after Frank O’Hara
I’m not going to smile all the time
nor shall I cry carrying myself to sleep,
I don’t recommend one rush over another.
I’d crawl up the peak of my murmur & melody,
become an invulnerable bridge, but also the battle
that is overproduced on either side. I want to die
at least as dramatically as my anger. And if
some expert on my mayhem announces “That’s
not like Sara!,” fuck all knowledge. I
don’t wear my leopard print to the conferences
all the time, do I? I want my hands free,
I want my feet transcendent, and my heart—
you can’t calculate the heart, but
the mysterious part of it, my love, is precise.