Once I walked out into the world with flesh on, cluster
pins of nerves arranged artfully. If you had exhaled
against my shoulder or the back of my knee,
you might have watched me bloom. I weighed down
the darkening like honeysuckle or stones plinked
into pockets. I leaned hard against twilight
to leave a print of myself for you to find.
How very like a small girl to leave so many
finger smudges, my palms upturned for a wet cloth,
a murmur that wipes them clean. How very like
a ghost to tell you, here, this is my hand, and then
to pull it away. I was both and more. As fast
as I could fold, there were more paper boats to let
loose on the air. And yes, of course, I see
the flaw in that logic. I tilted my head, opened my
mouth to the breeze because I remembered kisses.
That kind of faith should have been rewarded, ought
to have made the lame lift up their pallets and stand
steady in their high heels, but instead I rolled on
my tongue no more than a whit of wind. It was a trick
to balance it there so long without swallowing.
I walked out into the world with eyes on. If you
had draped your shadow across them, I would still
have seen that it wasn’t you. You were like that, making
night blacker than it was ever intended to be. I blinked,
not to clear my sight, but to make you feel the stroke
of my lashes down your skin. You shuddered; you
were legion. I would have settled for any one of you.
