The legs are two folded petals
tucked supplely under the weight of your torso.

The arms are a cloak thrown over the thighs;
hands are the frayed ends, fingers the wands.

The head nods at the end of its stalk
from day to day, toppled;
often forgetting it is attached.

Shooting up through you sits "The idea."
It balances over top the body and head like an egg.

The heart is gunfire,
semi-automatic.
Your hidden heart stands above the rest,
gnarled and crimsoning the strands.

It has grown into all parts of you,
and all your parts have inscribed into it
the memory of percussion.