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.