Once, as a baby, I slept in a laundry basket through a tornado. Noone will let me sleep now. Each of my hands is a townunderwater. My lovers canoe down the streets of my heart, morethan the groceries they have to steal. We’ll call this barrenwhen it’s over and the drought hits. I am not more thanmy body. We weave our nation into pillowcases, and ourheads collapse into soft down. I’m asked about my town;I should’ve known how difficult it would be to say noto going home. Fields, trees. America brands itself a havenby destroying everywhere else. Foxes think they’re saferin the ground until the asphalt hardens. I am not better thanmy country. The heat index rises as we melt thecage they built around the world; the world takes onelook at freedom and does something unexpected. When theycall, they tell me to stitch together everything they toreapart. The telephone weeps in its cradle after I put it down.