The Cyclone

I don’t understand you the way I don’t understand
roller coasters, why people lock themselves
into rickety ridesto be reminded—repeatedly—
they are going to dielittle 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 feltthe 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 knuckledscreamingrounding the same corners
to feel I was aliveand sex mine to ride

how much of our bodies are waterthe 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—