(ir)Retrieval

* sonnet crown in progress...

That _____ was born Melissa Dawn Tolbert December 24, 1974
to a woman named Jeannie Darline. That in this
we decorate almost. We mean (we relegate) we mean.
That the hopeful bearded face becomes a tyranny.
(That what we believe in is a form of refraction. The back turning
as a word, upon itself. Draping the neck into sound.) That there lies
a calloused form of predicate beneath the Rupaul.
That the body which is her body is a decency.
That we draw can(n)ons around permissible and rest.
That a book I received I then decided to return to you.
That I do not know forgiveness for the things we choose to leave.
That, like the after image given to a closed eye.
She is prologue. And simultaneous. She is domicile.
That this is not therefore. (salient.) That she bring.


1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14

That we are a history. On a good day. A context. The path
of a paper airplane drawn optimistically about the edges
of a room. That my hands do still so little (grieving)
to listen to me. Usurpers of sleep and yet
their genius is temerity. That they memory
they memory they member. (non-consensual.) They member
they memory they rest. In this, they encourage
disparation. They gentle Hustler, Man 2 Man,
and Too Deep. (we are patching this in on film.)
That the bathroom is guileless in its obscurity. What we
reach for when placing a _____ in the mouth.
Do not hold your hands like a lift to me.
Lying just below the derivative of undertow. That they
are given twice as empty as sound.

1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14

1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14

1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14




That the body which is my body is a relevancy.
That the new body which is irrelevant is a test.
That there’s never been a man in the room. That,
were it not for one man fucking me back into existence,
I would have sworn to you that I thought I saw two.
That there are now tears in what was supposed to be
impermeable. That either way I am unable to be conceived.
That the body which is my body is indeterminately.
That there is little room for the tiny tufts of toilet paper.
That I will hold them in the verisimilitude I continuously
refer to as my chest. That this is somehow a demonstration
of bravery. That better models of logic are exemplified
by this drain. That erosion is what some still believe in philanthropy.
That this is a prayer shawl. That still we refuse to call her by her name.