Identity

How to Sleep Standing Up:

 

First give all the things in your stomach a name.

If your stomach is a rolling snake, head

Peering above cavernous echo of your mouth,

Call it so-

Say “the snake” when people ask what’s swallowing

The air in the room,

Leaving everyone dizzy and spinning and 

Lightheaded, like you.

Once all the air is in your stomach,

Call it acid

Because it is. 

Call it bleach as it peels the wallpaper

With each exhale,

Then call the walls pillows once you’ve

Turned them down.

 

Next, when you hear talking,

Shove your tongue in your ears

From the inside out. 

Muscle through the long hallways of skull,

Tasting jaw and brain and bone.

When others offer to do it for you,

Say they won’t like how it tastes

Once they worm through the skin,

Say it’s been in the back too long-

Say it has freezer burn,

Say “sorry, I can’t hear anymore.”

 

Then, when no one will turn out the lights

And the world is still pink behind your lids,

Put your eyes in your pockets.

Wrap them up in a paper towel first,

Blot them carefully.

If someone wants to see them,

Say “sorry, who’s there?” 

Or if your tongue is still busy,

Pretend what’s in your ears is music-

But don’t dance, because you 

Can’t see. Call this

Nighttime. 

 

Then, stand very still. Pretend

The sun is that flickering fluorescent light

And you are the sweat on someones 

Upper lip, evaporating. 

Say “excuse me” to people you

Bump and “goodnight” to those who

Try to hold your ankles. And when your

Mouth has evaporated, too,

Say nothing

Because you can’t. Let their 

Mouths say something like

“Sleeping.”