I welcomed the woman. I put a towel on my bed and lay down. I told her my burns were tender, but what I meant was I still haven’t decided what my definition of privacy is. I told her I want to know more about my legs, but I meant to say release them. Please release them. She held my kneecap like a baby’s cheek. She touched her cheek to mine, the soft grind of skin, as when I once rubbed two light bulbs together. She pressed me hard into the mattress until I slipped inside, both above and beneath a sheet of ice. When she asked me how I liked it I said I’m tired of feeling punished. When she asked me what I wanted, she answered my silence with silence.

There's a fly in the house I can't kill.

I won't know if it's real until I kill it.

It darts through my periphery as my internet

yogi tells me that a cow

can be an opening. I turn my mat

to face the window

so I can see the tree on fire,

the red maple, but a truck that reads

MOVING? is in the way.

Imagine yourself as a child

watching, says the yogi, which I never

want to remember—

everything I had to watch.

I don't let her finish.

What she wanted was for me to take up space,

something about reclaiming joy

by thinking of my favorite childhood

TV program. Later, I give it a try

while folding laundry,

The Real Housewives of somewhere

on high volume to dominate

the persistent buzzing

in my ear. A Dwell

magazine placed on the back

of my husband's shirt

helps me get a proper folder.

Am I taking up space, with the proper fold?

In my house clothes I get on the floor

into extended child's pose and reach

for the cow opening. I press an ear

to the wood and listen for something

in another room,

in another house. What I hear

is a long conversation about me

that I didn't begin.

I hear my own voice from a distance:

I don't want to say the words of what happened.

Some days I'm floating around and don't know it

I don’t want to say the words of what happened.

Some days I’m floating around and don’t know it

I said I’m tired of feeling

punished. When she asked me

what I wanted, she answered

my silence with silence.