I.
All I know exists between clenched fists.
My hands didn’t come this way.
Everything foreign rubs them raw,
no matter how gentle.
This is how my body looks out for me.

There used to be sand here.
I held on so tight, I lost it.
Now, the sand dwells with two-way mirrors
and fish who need fresh air.

II.
Most days, I’m best left alone.
The handy-woman loosens my screws,
and thinks she’s always right.

On the days I’m a fish out of water,
she sees me as a crying baby.

She must be hungry, and the airplane comes again.
She’s still crying, and the airplane comes again.
I am not enough, and the airplane comes again.

When my belly swells,
she paints a barcode on my arm,
tries to exchange me for store credit.

III.
All that matters escapes me.
I’ve learned more from the vandals
shooting blow darts at the moon
than I ever did out west.

Most days, I doubt that I’m still breathing.
My lungs are worms’ meat.
My lungs don’t know if they need water or air.
Thank God for shallow ends and seltzer.

IV.
These IOUs are legs
my brain can’t recognize.
I clamp them at the knees;
I pray for gangrene.

When the doctors drain the infection,
they say, this can’t be what you want.

This is how I look out for my body.
I’m still searching for a saw.