At night when I cannot sleep

I count the parts of my body:

the cradle between thumb and forefinger,

the bulge of my wrist muscles,

one dark hair curling from a nipple,

the white scar across my belly where a dog bit me.

His teeth raked down my ribs, an ellipsis,
a cartographer's stroke between nest and throat
an unspoken country
whiter than your face, than your shocked face.

You cracked open my ear like a fortune cookie
with words raw and shellacked as oysters.
I fed greedily, choking and opening
my mouth for more.

The roof of my mouth is an arched cathedral;
my teeth offer sanctuary to your persecuted lips
to your brutalized monastic lips.
Instead you trace a finger along my chin.

Two fingers I laid across your throat,
slender sisters, furtively they read your dots and dashes,
deceptive and giddy as schoolgirls, they spill your secrets,
whispering across my peeling linoleum knees.

My knees.
You who so cherish balance,
must you always rob me of my knees?

I loved you once, I will not love you again.

What is it like outside? you ask.

Rainy, I say, when what I mean is
the curve of your nail, the striations on your knee
the chafing woolen weave of your cheek.
I could live inside your room forever.

What is it like outside? you ask.

Brrrr, I answer, when what I mean is
wrap me in benedictions, lay your hand upon my ungloved head.
I lash myself to this ceramic windowsill
My cheek paints feverish patterns in the glass.

What is it like outside? you ask.

Warm, I tell you, when what I mean is
the snarl of hornets, my pulpy apricot flesh
gouged by your teeth, I wipe my finger
beneath your chin.

What is it like outside? you ask.

Bitter, I confide, when what I mean is
scorch me, slash and burn, harvest me whole.
Moths with wings like butternut squash scratch against the window,
a staccato pulse, acorns fall from my pockets
and red shreds of leaves from my hair.

Bloodletting

Today feels like a bloodletting, when a dream woke me up and now I am fighting my way through chenille mists, fuschia, I can't see except through a magenta haze, only dream of mushrooms and bared teeth and the smell of wood. If I bound you, would you forgive me? If I cut you open, could I inhabit you forever? I twist your hair around my fingers, the knot is strong but my hands are melting, they run in rivulets down your face, I am yours, you breathe me in.

Never. If I saw you now, I would crunch your aura between my teeth. How we could devour each other, without touching, your eyes cradling my infant self, stroking my wounded emergence, a physical energy.

My heart is a washrag twisted in my chest. I creep on tiptoe past it, afraid of its unfurled gnarls, its gritty gray malice. You see my path to peace as it wavers, built below sea level, obliterated in a crush of water as you shed your torrents around me.

My wounds ache for you.