#bianca stone

americana-tropicana:

You entered at the badlands with your hair in a bun.
You missed a certain moon.
You prevailed through a chilly reception from your new friends,
stunning yourself with visions.
I was moving like a monsoon through a forest.
I was thinking about where I saw myself in two thousand years
and where I saw myself was a tiny subspace ripple
sliding through the corridors with a plastic horse in my hand.
We were in stasis for 17 days and when I woke
yours was the first face that I saw.
I didn’t care that our disease
was incurable
because it was only you and I
that incubated it.
You were a governess and I was an energy field.
You drank vegetable bullion, suffering in solitude.
I wanted to bloom in a field of toxic dust
and you talked me out of it.
In your spare time you sewed a blanket, your strange femininity
like a hybrid flower where I was confined.
I cut a lock of your hair with a Neolithic stone
and with it I made a fire.
You put a handful of worms in my mouth to keep me alive.
You put yourself in between a planet and missile.
You fell in love with a computer-generated father of two
and broke his heart. You were frightened.
I told you I could be trusted. I escaped in a tiny ship.
I had a plan. You gave a speech.
You wanted to gather energy from a cloud of purple light
and you were secretly all along
assembling your manifesto
through a series of captain’s logs.
Once, there were two of you
and you each wanted to die for the other’s greater good.
You fought over the other’s right to live.
You respected and contradicted yourself.
At the last minute of the self-destruction sequence you died
and you also continued on.
You wanted to brush a strand of hair away from your face
but you didn’t. Your arms were supplemental.
I saw you in a dream intruding on another’s dream with diplomacy.
I told them to take you away at once
and then shook without you in my presence.
I wanted to live with you on an uninhabited planet
and build you a house. You wanted to see Bloomington Indiana again.
You look good in red.
Once, you woke up beside a God
and were furious at his presumptuousness.
You wore a scarf of alien silk.
Became repulsed by lavishness and empty hedonism.
I was in a bad part of Brooklyn
and you were in my mind internalizing sadness.
Making scary situations sexy.
Making lingerie on shimmering bedspreads militant.
You came into my mind and I made you more tea
we talked about the past. I said too much—
the sort of noise one makes
with a flask; cognitive behavioral therapy
barking like a seal in a mid-sized pool of my brain.
The more I drank the more deliberately I defended my haircut
—which lead me to family—those broken snipers
in their unpeopled region of space—each shot silent,
each bullet like a shooting star across a prehistoric sky—
I was evolving. Picturing myself prevailing through a series of obstacles
equal to iridescent natural disaster,
my head stuck in a banister of longing. I stood
a little behind you taking notes.
You sent me on a secret mission every night.
And there was a beautiful gash on your cheek.