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December 8, 2011
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A new freckle has emerged breathless
from beneath the folds of your left foot. A testament
to the lost months.

It swallows my body with its noiseless
existence, like teeth too small for the gum – my existence
used to swallow you. From the depth you sighed,

There are too many teeth inside of you and I cannot reach
the marrow. From the depth you sighed,

The space was absolute and lost, we had lost
our density

Make space for me among the bone.

(have we loss the mass yet?) The inevitability
of losing variables when there simply are not hands enough. I was never taught
how to express loyalty or withhold the anger of it.

I once knew your cheekbone – slight arc of navel –
the name of your joints. You chose abandonment
of body for fear it may not be capable of keeping
its secrets from me: I had not forgotten the phrases
made known or the silence of a sleeping dorm room. Pretty one, the silence
of human and human becoming entity.

Santa Barbara
knew us then.

I think about the linens between breaths.
Give me one more sleepless night, with knees
like hers. In the linens, I lose the desire to be just one.

Little one, I know the paths you have taken, with or without the telling of flesh;

tell the elbows to come home now. They have missed the static.
Weeping one, I know you from between houses –
your spaces are useless without me. I know of the sinking one, my black eyed baby, let me sink it.

Tell me to come home now. I have missed the telling most of all.

The telltale salt stains in quiet creases, I know bare arms means sad.
Too many moths had touched my skin. So seamlessly,

the neurons fired.
So quickly the arms broke. I was left alone with a heaving process.

You are remembered by the floors, there are walls that don’t understand.
They ask where has my lovely one buried herself this time.

A year
is the saddest time to be buried beneath. She cries out
The lashes are just too heavy at seventeen.

Where has she gone

and why has she left me here without her?

I have readied a much loosened tongue for the heightened arrival of
edges. There were so many. My body had become too volatile
for the porcelain of you – and the glass inside your cotton. Mistress of Objects Edged.
Your glass was hidden from me, you hid your objects from me. Woman Concealed.

We lost each other in the composition,

the fear of the medium.

Wrap my stones up with the fabric of it, I need the place.

For nearly ten months my shoulders peeled until there was no more shoulder to render.
It is a long way home and I cannot find my body to carry me to you.
The skin of your hands was more forgiving than my own. I became
girl, sanguine pebbles in throat

and a core of cobalt vaults at dusk.

Tell the freckle I forgive her. Tell the body I am capable of secrets
and the elbow that kindness has grown from the wounds.

Tell my Lovely One I don‘t want to be the girl with the teeth inside of her. Tell her I said
the scent of Tuesday alarms me still – I lost count at twelve – and that sometimes, we lose people
because they are in need of disappearing. I was lost among the bones. The compulsion had lost my own.

And how often I have released:
We can be new people with old attachments. We can be people together.

Our pine was
afraid of distention. Our pine was
afraid of distention.

But in kneecaps there are exits. And I have grown
a bellyful of kneecaps with the length of your need.

O, thou cosmic checkmate, we can be people with freckles, stand
on our heads while the aging runs its course.
I am willing to let our joints turn.

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