Levitation Practice by Liz Worth

Levitation Practice

I asked Kathy Acker to haunt my house.

She moved in immediately,

the only guest I’d had in months.

The first thing she taught me was

levitation, worked out through a

calculation of concavity and

lavender incense.

It’s all about timing, she says,

her jaw loose, armpits rife with decay.

Later at the bar,

alone,

I mishear a lyric:

Reach out and touch me.

It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?

My shoulder pads sliding loose,

out of time with the band.

I want to seduce the drummer,

heard it should be easy.

No one ever wants the drummer,

a friend once assured me.

Talking like she knew something about it.

I ask questions about

improvisational jazz and

cumulous clouds,

things that might make me

sound smart.

I failed the hard classes in school.

I tell this to Kathy later.

She sits on the edge of my bed,

nods sympathetically.

She wants to smoke a cigarette.

I let her, watch as

she flicks the ash onto the

comforter, smears it into patterns,

a writer’s version of tasseography.

Precision is a cruel game.

Close your eyes, she says.

I do. All I see is wishes.

Kathy howls like a wolf to

count us down to practice.

We will ourselves to lightness.

We will ourselves to nothing.