I push air-bloat from vacuum bags to inhale what I can,
overfilling every space until it’s rounded out—
breadcrumbs, spirits, boxcutters, American Spirits all clog the hose
& the Dirt Devil blows chunks, soot & sand & shit spill into
the kitchen / bedroom & I’m left on its filthy floor calling friends for advice.
Chris says I should find an outlet to empty myself into,
like yoga or hiking but he is in California & I am substance dependent—
burdened by the weight of 2,000 miles & an oral fixation.
Distance doesn’t care if I’ve climbed the mountain, slit the belly, released ashes
to the wind—its only goal is separation. Lauren tells me
to quit smoking & just replace the damn bag but I love watching clouds
billow from a mouth— ovular & fanged— the breath’s sour kiss
of mentholated mist stretching toward the sunsetted sky. I daydream of Dysons
as I sweep my combination kitchen / livingroom, leaving jagged lines of lint
across the floorboards. I’m crooked, too—a body of smoke on the bed of a tongue
exhaled into formlessness. Sasha says space shapes what it holds,
better to balloon ourselves that way, becoming ourselves the way
a goldfish grows to the size of its bowl, stopping while it still has room
enough to swim or do little tricks, unaware of the glass that goblets
the water & the bubbles & the fulgent, rainbow pebbles below.
