Your sky is sharp with little right angles:

with the insistence of everything

unfinished–my impulse to open my body

and take apart the heart, to replace it

with a portion of the frontal lobe.

What will it take to make me whole?

A baby’s alphabet block? A perfect oval

to fill the hole in a birdhouse? A celtic knot

of stitches? Or a wish? I am made

with unripe plums, peach pits, by which

I mean beating blood vamped up like jazz bands.

Listen to my bones and their funk: My arms

hymn with scars and dark marks.

I have no mouth to speak out

against the dark and inky sky.

My voice is this body. I speak with it:

I dance and I am not sorry.