Turning Into Water
Once I stood in a dark closet for hours
holding a fan made of finger bones.
How my pelvis says, No, I don’t have a door.
When it’s actually a kind of tearing,
your fingers hooked into my clavicle,
its dip filling with water. Add salt
and it starts to burn. When you’ve come
to me in dreams even for so short
a time, I turn into waking with a hole in
my side. How I loved loneliness
if loneliness could mean I left myself behind
in that dream, canaries whirring from
my mouth. How this feathered shadow says
submit, and my body unforms from
the inside out, heart fluttering in its bone-
cage, those last red wing-flicks.
How we start as constellations,
lines someone imagines between
tiny worry dolls. How I’m the child
waking to bears and the face of the old
woman who keeps them leashed. How
swallowing your pulse, its shift and wiggle,
is your dance on my tendons, so my hand
plucks open and shut like a puppeted
mouth. Every little hurt is a honeycomb
sliced open. How you follow my wet
steps into the forest where six children wait
with a cauldron, as the body unjoints.
How I’ll sleep again through my making,
the outbreath choking your canary throat.