Watch the tourists watch you as you sketch 

a Christmas tree on fire, then a pillow and

the bottom of the ocean. Draw tiny dark flowers

 

on your arms and belly with blood and ink. Don’t meet the eyes of your lovers, your parole officer. See yourself as the center of a large,

 

wilting chrysanthemum. Dream you can’t stand

 

up straight, that the soft round squish of your brain is a boiling vat of perfume. Imagine what it means

 

to be a mother; on the curb outside the hostel, as your latest friend from McDonalds tips some instant

 

zen onto your tongue, 

hallucinate 

a warm bottle 

of milk in your hands.