Do not put your hand inside me
today, for today I bleed and have legs
which do not carry me all the way to you.
Instead place your hand of stone
upon my belly and make of me a song
for my own sorrow in this hibernal
cycle of the last station, its round
and insubstantial dwindle. Make
of me a woman untroubled by
infernal soughs of branches clenched
firm between thick rime and fading
light. Do not string me between your arms
today, for this day I am split
and vital fluids seep from multifaceted rents
in the weave of my lively body. Among
your careful limbs instead let me fall.
Let me continue this pitch into a perfect
circle of your careful breaths. Make
of me a weight for my own worry, a dense
sound composition authored by your forehead—
your forehead upon my bruise in bloom.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 4.
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