The clouded mind is Kant without his hair extensions, his eyelash curler.
We met last night and he was like Christmas, sad, a tree.
Kant told me to toss my arms in the oven,
think of the world as a big wound.
Kant is Japanese and has a cremated heart. He asks if I’m married although
my hands are full of wild sea creatures.
Kant has a smooth back and he is like my husband. I wrap my face in yours
and we giggle because I love you when you are a honey collector,
straw hat touching my nose, when you hum feminist mantras to me, and
me and Kant, we giggle when I tell him, I love my husband.