What holds us together isn't magnetism,
the iron filaments in our veins are loosened
and drawn to opposing poles, and a woman,
I bleed in tides as if I am operated by the moon;
a puppet - its ashen consternation jolts
the cells to unite me with a river
in an unconscious symmetry with its currents;
the communication of chemical to chemical.
Our chiral hands let apples fall from them,
letting go of these creeds of floods and egg
and errant serpents, all lost to gravity -
when we were fieldfares we turned
our frightened faces in the same direction,
we tried to share shelter in a Hawthorn tree,
but there was always what the mind can't silence:
the ebb and flow of the demands of the body
for sleep and food, love and water and sex.
And then our perpetual debts
to each other that we repay and repay
in our commodities of emotions.
My warm blood simmers at a medium temperature
on the stove, my warm blood, if stirred,
thickens, slicks and sticks to vessels.
I have worked hard to repress and disavow
my feelings in my fear of them,
watched them depart my jittered skin
and waft their tar to adjacent rooms,
what's left of me releases
it's cleaner scent of camphor,
my ribs emptied,
the cold gasp held at the rise of my chest;
many words are trapped there
where the water swallows the sharp ice
of stars and is frozen in a shimmer.
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