I take off my boots because of their steel shanks.
I take out my orthotics, place my coat and purse in the bin,
place my carry-on on the belt. I take off my shirt, my jeans,
my bra. I take out my contacts. I take off my makeup
and earrings, strip the dye from my hair. I relax my stomach
to its honestly protruding shape. Still, it’s all over the TVs
about me. I’m buzzed again as if there’s been no progress at all
since the club-carrying, the dragging-by-the-hair. I take off
my skin, veins flying like ropes, organs dropping away
one by one. I address the additional matter of bones:
unfasten ball from socket, unhook ligaments,
leave the electronic eye no place to rest.
I am almost ready to go, if I could quit
thinking, the thinking that goes on
almost without knowing, the tiny person
crossing her legs in the back
of the mind, the one who
says, “I still love you,
dear guilty flesh.”