Words equivalent to body
mean dead. I am not carcassed
despite leaving my body
in a heap on the bed.
A bird beats its beak
against wood—learning
a body is like that—headlong
resolve into a hard thing
made soft by rain & repetition.
I kneel over my body
& dig & dig & dig
searching for the inseam’s zipper.
Words equivalent to buried
mean body: a breathing tomb
I coax myself into
by clutching the spine & parting it.
I am kneeling over my breasts.
I am slipping on my face.
Imagining a ring on each,
I slide my fingers on
& hook my knuckles
like buttons into their satin loops.
If I have allowed another
to undo me—
skin, the stockings
peeled down the legs
—it’s to learn the body:
each hem & rib, each
vertebrae & tooth
in the zipper I use to exit.
There is pleasure in the question:
this time will I want to
kneel & dig & climb back in?
I’ve yet to learn the difference
between bone & snare.
There will come a time
when I won’t work free
the noose in my hair.