Somewhere, I Know What It Is Like

by Dana Blatte

to drain summer through sheets of haze
from wildfires nearly a country over. Swinging,
the hammock ropes. My weight forsaking
one half of the air for the other. Don’t you hate
yourself?
I photograph a fawn that looks at
me with flicking ears. Pitted eyes. Innocent
until I shoo it into the brush. I sprint home
with a firework under my tongue. What if
I’m not who I want to be?
My mother says
there might be other worlds behind the sky.
I quit therapy in middle school. I wonder if
it’d make me different. I’m not sure
who I love.
My room swells at night. I stay
small in that I drift on white noise. Sinusoidal waves.
Do I have to choose to be a poet? I summer
in a different body. One that doesn’t keep track
of temperature. Maybe my mother was right.
The woods could lift me to the sky. I could shrink
into the deer and run with them into a heatless world.