The poem wants nothing but to become:

while you want nothing but to be

undone— To grow sleek in the dark
and unlayered in light; to be the girl,

no, all the girls who danced so much
they wore holes in their slippers,

even after the room was locked
from outside and someone threw

the key away— And the poem wants
a shirt to shrug way down its

shoulders, it wants a heap of agate
beads to slide like fingers

across its breasts. Wrap
a woven tapis about its hips

and thread the spines of skinned
reptiles through its dark hair;

under a moon round as a gangsa,
feed it rice wine sweeter than vodka

and make it tell of the night-blooming flower
that shows its face only once a year.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Unknitting.

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