Audio: Read by the author.

High spring. The sounds at their

utmost registers. I am building

a language with my bike. Shame

makes the wheels go, shame

pumps its sick jet fuel.

I am flying over tiny hills with moats

of purple flowers. My fantasy

is evidence. My fantasy is a white skull

gleaming through a bed of mulch.

I let go of the handlebars and beat

my chest with shame’s gorilla fist

until the trees get in my way.

Nancy Drew before me, Nancy Drew

behind me, Nancy Drew on all

sides of me, Lord hear my prayer.