Wild Seeds of Plums

Here I am! I’m folding / and folding / 
the laundry, in the dark. Spraying rose mist
into my face. / Unblockable smell of just-
caught fish hanging from lines trailing  / out
the open window. Soft red music  / plays 
from outside! Trees have their own dreams /
all about recursion. / I dreamed I was a tree
with the ability to look inside / myself. I saw
a hollow, dark. / My only recurring dream is
of having inconsistent / magic powers /
which I don’t know how to turn / on or off.
I’ve teleported and I don’t know where I am.
/ I’m scanning Google Earth for any shadow
trace. / Like combing a head for lice. 
But / the lice is God, and is gone, too.

 Old Name

I am afraid of Jacob,
the way I was afraid of light turned on
     in the dark—what monsters would reveal?
the way I was afraid of sand
     of putting my hands in the brown sand until I
     could no longer see them
the way I was afraid of cats
the way I was afraid of my little brother
     one day learning that he would die
     and breaking down from the thought of it
the way I was afraid of my thoughts
     in different permutations of wanting cobwebs
     not to break when I walked through them
     but to hold, hold, Hold!
the way I knew that beyond
     the Earth’s atmosphere was Visible Space,
     full of stars—then invisible space, Dark Space,
     full of nothing, and hundreds of times wider—
     then Outer Space, full of (other worlds and)
     ghosts and God