Each wave leads silence into the direction I face. 
Prayerless. Drowning a room with the space I make
for leaving. This woman, then that, choose
the lilac sundress, the craft essay with the urgency
of sun cream. How to be anywhere but here?
To live in summer is to darken the drought,
wait for a hailstorm, suck its chaos like marrow,
the way my grandfather taught me. Beg the laptop
to hang a new moon. Find Seroxat beneath its nails. 
Check the language app when I forget the word for here.
Listen to how the poets move through their day: like a boss.
You can break a fast with tenderness and make paydays
a spiritual practice. The screen says please wait.
Walk to where the peonies are burnt-out and the catmint
masquerades as lavender – can you blame it?
It’s where the hiding happens. Yesterday, I left a version of me
at the pond’s sulphur edge, skimmed her own self-care
like an eviction notice in June. I read healing is radical honesty,
perhaps the world, perhaps me. When he said the skill is in resistance 
I wanted the pulse of empty days, shells screaming, apricots ripened
and sharp. Either way, I leave myself speechless.