In my dream, the world is a rowboat. In my dream,
the world is a quarter, sunspit & golden. The rain comes
in swells, a single hurtling fist. Annie doesn’t understand
the glory of a bumblegirl: blushfire, liquid smoke, diamond-
back honey. The basement sucked iodine. I did not get to yell.
Instead, stains on Annie’s hands, red & full, a latent promise
of nervous tongue & sex, except there was no sex & the bruises
were Boy’s way of saying no, then yes, then no again.
Annie calls this the mythology of manhood. Annie calls this
the mythology of entitlement, but I am thinking of necklaces,
bracelets, earrings made of latex. A fingered, toothy grin.
Annie scrubs my thighs: jetstreams, cherry oil, red as the blood
on the bed. Red as the blood in the water.
Brianna Albers is a poet, writer, and storyteller located in the Minneapolis suburbs. A student at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, she is currently studying psychology and the philosophy of literature. While her work can be found in The James Franco Review, Word Riot, and Winter Tangerine, among others, she is currently compiling a collection of her poetry; her début chapbook is forthcoming, hopefully. Her fingers are crossed.