dissection of any body

in the morning, in the kitchen
i once told you
about a dream i’d had of you

a simple, weak thing
that endures
miraculously
time, body, poetry
it can live
at the doormat, the
auditorium
or your bedside drawer

you, a
twilit figure
in the doorway

i had
cupped your small head
in my two hands

as you breathed
into my lap
brilliantly
folding upon flesh
of motion, desolation
small
rash
remains
i felt you were even timid
to be alive

felt
through your hair
the shape of your scalp

felt that our intimacy
we had bore
so beautifully
had become sinister

and i
quickened to tell you
all about it

but i wonder
is honesty ever
as infertile
as your forehead?
i never managed
to kiss it

i imagined
being up against you
the far reaches of you
edges, corners
multifarious beings
disguised
cloaked in skin
of you
i wanted you
to despise me
to thrash
and claw
and kick me
because then
i could finally look at you
and tell you
i was beginning to pray
most nights

“will you please stay
propped up
just like that?”
but i didn’t know
no, i didn’t
know if i could

because when you had looked up
that crooked way
you do
with your eyelids
lashes
nostrils in flare
searching me
for a moment to spare, to love
you
i realized
my hands
had disappeared
behind my back
i had never
even touched your
head

but once upon a time
i cared deeply
about these things

back then
the earth moved between our legs
it put on
quite a show
of affection
and we god—
we
rode that rocking horse
like two regular cowboys

i still dress up
to come and see you
you think
i’m ridiculous
sometimes i think
i’m being hunted