"Baby Fever."
Death roams the neighborhood of my dreams
like a bored teenage girl.
She knocks at my door--
loose-chested, dreadlocks, chewing gum.
Honey, try a bra, I tell her.
See, this is your problem, she says.
You only see one layer underneath.
I sort of want to touch her collarbone, but don't.
She follows my eyes.
I don't dress this way for you, she says.
I know, I say, and why?
I ask, and I tighten my grip on the screen door.
She rolls her eyes and tugs at the handle,
and I think about how they'll find me--
so dressed, so covered in things I could have made myself
but didn't.