it’s good when the bones show,
her fingers say to me as they dig into my clavicle

she vivisects me
and holds me up to the light
scraping my ribs bare

i will (shop)lift the dirt from your body,
she promises.

and my bones will bleach to the purest white,
a shade still too dark for her,

not by the sun,
but by her pelvic bone that curves like a knife,
her words that cut to the marrow.



during the day they bind my hands to the railroad tracks
and leave me to contemplate the speed at which my skin
might part. these ligatures cut into the tattoos on my
wrists, where i once pressed them together over your
sleeping body with an adoration that stays with me even
as i wait for the field of my vision to be filled with
steel bearing down on me. at night i am unbound, and i
wander the banks of the river looking for the moon, but
i only ever find its reflection. i press my wrists
together on the riverbank, knowing what the next day
will bring: rails that appear to coalesce to a single
point of transcendence. but it is only an illusion.