My thighs touch too close for comfort.
Hip bones buried in my sides, old handlebars or the bronze gates
to a hungry woman. Pull, she says, come closer.
I do not bleed, anymore
I maneuver this daunting vessel and
I am starved.
Please, come closer.
I want to disappear with the reptiles
My large parts dissolved
and leave my bones, just bones to piece
an entirely new entirety. Being
beautiful is human, excruciating. Being
human is not as humane as one would think.
Last year I was the hurricane
The year before, an asteroid
This year I am the mammal
I tried to sing. launched nothing.
Not a single fin or bird or land. Sometimes
they speak, but not to me.
I am hungry, please.
I tried again. Woke up a red tent.
One hundred days; no olive branch,
no map, no man—no voice to croak:
The tent will not pitch,
The ship will not ground.
Twice I’ve tried
To disappear: to Grace Kelly, or dust
To bear the heavy flesh-coat.
But the fat fingered reminder—I could not manage
The remainder: yes, I remember—
I am full. I am a fool.
I did not choose to take this space.