Corpus

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First incision—an induction

into a world of rhyming hips, pear

ripe with flesh.                                    The glacial

decay, the heavy throb

of red. Two hundred and six   bones and a business

                                                                                           of circulation—I am an earthquake

                                                                                           of meat

 

and a continent puzzling

together gristle and joint. So many

colors brocade                      across this feverish plane—opaline,

                                          the pyrite clogs of fat,

                                          this thousand

                                                                       

shaded ruby angled

through it all. Every curve of scapula

trusts the lines to tangent                  into limbs, every nerve trusts

the body to polish

this world       

                                               

into skin, into a vessel

to contain such power. In turn,

I trust the vessel                                  as a gatekeeper, I trust these bones

                                                to scatter themselves

                                                in the sun                                once the journey has ended,

                                                                                             to bake beyond memory

                                                                                             as desert sand.

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