That thing I scrape against every floor.
That thing, that thing keeps betraying me.
I knock on wooden bones for good luck,
but the splinters in knuckles act as omen.
I fold it with other bodies into technical--
but not beautiful--origami. I call it art anyway.
I drown the esophagus with citrus, white wine,
semen. There are days that don't go well enough,
yet still I try to swallow those too.
This body, what a treacherous thing,
the blame it puts on me---
sticking its hands into other women
& other women's cookie jars,
consuming everything of everyone's
just to throw it back up yellow & black.
