I am constantly dreaming about setting things on fire:
my desk, white woman novels for kindling, my brother's
blue bedroom wall covered in Avengers stickers. Like liquor,
the tiny hands of toy soldiers pour into my mouth
and I wake up reaching for my tongue. But I digress:
I'm always digressing from something, but I never know
what I'm digressing about. I'm always saying   the word
honory instead of ornery. I google things like cottonmouth,
or towns named bath, or how do i ease this burning in my
bones. Malaise flits in my brain like a gray moth. I don't
Uber anywhere. If I worked for Oxford, the word of the year
every year would be rambunction. Would be bring-the-muthafuckin’-
ruckus. At my house, business only ends at the 11th hour.