Anatomy of a Dress

A mouth clamped shut because the body folds
over. A body bowed. A body that never grew
hair and skin sweet as honey—half as sticky.
Would a woman laid waste make a maid. Is she
an act that grants her own reward.

Still life with an asp-mouth and carbon teeth, self portrait in
A storm, playing a dirge,
a weather system, a clatter in the shower,
a ritual cleansing, a sacrificial
So what:

A mouth clamped shut because the body folds over.
This does not live where you live, or vibrate at the strike of your feet.

A body bowed. No grief, not grief, not black grief nor gray dread, not dead jealousy or jealousy in the act of murder
One vocation will pay me and for the other
I will pay and pay and
Pay.

I remember a disquisition on forgiveness as a way to keep returning to the hurt.

Swell of a thousand silent trespassers.
Mother rolls out the purple cloak.
They bear up no bodies only shadows that shapeshift
The choice is to self-parent—the hurt was the love

Not this and no, and not the stuff of this. This is not yours, not grief for holding, not for to admire or pass around, not to name or nurture
A navel mouth singing heart’s songs in the shower’s clatter.

Arabesques make inroads for the timorous,
The brain braids water down tile walls
Does this water move—if I set a paper boat on its face
would we sail? Would it rain again?