I just want it sharp this time—

not quick, just knuckles

digging into my cheek­bone. Maybe even

keep punch­ing to make dents in my forehead,

make me forget my wisdom,

crush my third eye. I am a prophet

who wants to be blind. Seeing is lemon

in the eye. Seeing is swimming,

eyes open. Seeing is prob­a­bly why

you’re punch­ing me—you know anywhere

outside of this town isn’t for you. You know that

dirt roads are our only con­nec­tion. People called

me the sweet fruit rooted in the dirt.

They just called you dirt, and when I

tried to stop them, you said I must think

I am a fast-moving stream, that dirt

only sits below me, that I think dirt

is below me. I don’t blame you—sitting above is a hell

of a drug that makes us both less human. So do it,

then; smudge the dirt in your fingernails

on my face when you’re done.