Now it’s time I erase the bed, what firmed on the trigger
on the spring splayed flat. Here my thumbnail nestled love-like
in low canyons of each vertebrae. It charted them miserly,
mimicking the claws of a beast claiming its food, until veins
inflamed. Suck out this poison hope. New York wanted me
aware of my hips, to cyst inside and convulse like rain
dropped on park aluminum, to cry through the cloth
of my panties, to know I cried. New York asked me
to stay in the flesh and with a stiff grip held my fingers
hard in the vague space of its concrete, still drying.
When I pulled back, my hands kept glued in the guts
of the sidewalk and severed from me as the city fell away.
Then wrists and limbs and the rest floated off to other haze.
From a height I saw the fingers carve initials in the street,
vacant glyphs for a body that hardly existed. I wondered
how next I’d feel your spine without further use of my hands.
No comments:
Post a Comment