ode to sunday, 1994, my locks on the doors

after Hanif Abdurraqib

well, I dared to disturb the universe, and when I did the universe 

            opened her eyes wide and yawned, then left, her blonde hairs streaked 

across the bathroom sink and her prisoner-of-war shirt in my oven. 

            I found the bouquet, later, the roses superglued and colored in with lipstick, 

reread them like a prayer, found it holy, her mouth changing shape 

            when she looked at me in the light of the TV car chase, whatever, 

her breath hanging muddy in the cold, her head tossed on my shoulder after 

            one 1664 too many. there wasn’t a lot to look at. I tried to find something 

good for her, I did. Only I wanted to be someone new, tried the bleach grandma 

            uses to keep her hair all the same shade of silver, cast it aside for the kaleidoscope 

stained-glass shards from the church down the street instead. I could be real good 

if I was fake. But better to imagine her human in a place where nobody knows 

our names, where our troubles blossom and fade when the key turns, 

            the door creaks open. I want someone waiting for me at the terminal after 

the long flight home with roses in their hands, and I want the suitcases 

            forgotten, our clothes rain-soaked. I want the crimes, the cell doors, 

the fingers in my hair, pulling, brushing each strand back, telling me it’ll take more 

            than a nuclear war to tear me away from you, looping, I want her hands so softly.