Suspended between fire and water,
you showed to me in the magazine
the bodies
and we sat in secret while the party went on
loud outside without us.
I was five years old.
I didn’t know
I had a body.
When I touched
my body
I saw it only from above.
A blackbird
watching the sinister tangling of shadow
that you consumed.
Is this why
I inspect the women,
their collarbones
when they breathe in?
Is this why
I suspect the parties
when there’s dancing and darkness?
I can’t believe sometimes I have a body
like the propelling ribs of a magazine,
like the black-and-white twist of navel.
It stands slender and woman
in these elastic rooms of prayer
where strangers cast wishes upon me,
a reeling explosion
in the infinite night you made.