No one you
warns
about the shame--
the body turned swamp,
turned quicksand --
how the hollows gape
every time you walk, every time
you climb. Sliding, sliding,
drown—
after breaking, the body
will not seal. Bleed
for a month, three months
eternity. The terror
of sitting. Of shitting.
Put ice. Witch
hazel. Cry your eyes closed.
No one warns you
how the jointed boat
pelvis will creak, rock.
leak. How bodies
once mended, a ridge
of stitching remains,
like a seamed sock
rubbing your shoe.
How you can hate
your own stench
wash and wash,
and never feel clean.
Lord
of hosts
Lord
of knowings
teach
me the multiplicity
of this
body that opens
and
shuts without volition, quivering
like
a vibrating string.
Lord
of endings
beginnings
and thresholds
where
I lie toppled
eyes fixed upward
curled
hands conches
feet transforming
back to
the tail
that
will buy me back my voice.
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