I just need to jump     in the mud
    cake it on,     dig dirty nails     across my face.
Mix the blood     and brown.     Let the wounds fester,
    get infected,     let the crunchy ridges form     and yellow
and erupt     with that sickly, body-broth.     Spoon it
    in my mouth     like oozing vanilla ice cream.

An ice cream truck     started coming through.
    There’s a grime about it.     A white chipping
into this ruddy brown.     A patina on the rims.
    Even so,     a line forms     when the tinny dirge
snakes through the complex.
    It makes us want     a bomb pop.

I save my popsicle stick     for the garden
    stab the dirt     label the tomatoes,
the bell peppers.     Somewhere there’s okra
    —which I hate—     grown out of spite     grown
to be deep fried.     To be atomized.
    I need to put my atoms in the sink.     Soak them
in Dawn     to slick off that sticky,     iridescent oil.
    Or else just scatter them     in the soil.

Soil turns to mud     and I’m dirty.
    I’ll just wallow,     like swine.
Put makeup on a pig     people see the same     underneath
    They see a boy     trying. Cat ears     on Halloween,
covering leg hair     with fishnets,     a black skirt,
    stumbling in     scuffed     white platforms.