How can I wrap my weak bones around strong bodies
Forming rivulets of salt across my sheets
And down steps that will dry as soon as we stand
And leave this Indian summer air?
I am womb-fresh and shaking.
How can I tame lions when my own finger-claws
Hold the whip that flays my belly from inside out.
The back of my throat has nail marks
From all three of us.
I am a beast too, when I dare to stroke comfort
Into your hair with palms that smell like victory;
My dry cheeks are red with the upper hand.
Has my **** swallowed both your prides
With your fingers?
One month ago, beautiful,
You were spitting fire that sounded like:
“I don’t like anyone.”
Now you have laid on my floor.
You have counted three words off my claws.
And you, beautiful alchemist,
Do you know that the death under your skin
Has dripped onto mine and turned it to gold?
Please
Search the truth you crave in this flayed belly,
In this marked throat.
Dig my veins from the ground.
My gold is spent; it does not cry.
But it is so nice to be needed.