I don’t understand you the way I don’t understand
roller coasters, why people lock themselves
into rickety rides to be reminded—repeatedly—
they are going to die little deaths—
The personality book asked me what
I felt when I imagined riding a rollercoaster. Dread, I thought.
The next page said the rollercoaster represents sex.
I felt the dip in my stomach I knew before I knew
roller coasters and wanted to tell the book about my roaring twenties, how I went bravely over the clattering tracks, locked in, white knuckled screaming rounding the same corners
to feel I was alive and sex mine to ride
how much of our bodies are water the nerves, a net of Christmas lights thrown over us
On Coney Island, the screams of the Cyclone riders
whip around like streamers—I want to point them out to you, ask if you recognize them or if there is a girl up there in a striped shirt, her head back, eyes closed, laughing her head off—