I drive a hummer in America
because it is mighty.
A mighty woman in
a mountainous car.
Nobody can faze me or tousle
my spirit in that impossible thing.
Dreams are primitive pests,
laughable and like stick figure
insects. I swat them away
while reciting the names of African countries.
I imagine speeding over land lumps
with my very best friend,
the two of us laughing about
childish things. I am a child
in America. Later, the phone rings,
it is a telemarketer, the kitchen
is a mess, she has a solution to something.
There are marks up and down my body,
welts like little dead kisses.
Friends think I am sad,
but they don’t know about my plans.
They have never lived in my house,
with that husband, or that friend,
or felt that breeze,
the one that keeps me awake.