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.
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