My body’s known poets, a legion of murmuring men
saying things like, there’s a whole narrative here
while stumbling down the buttons of a blouse, twining
threads of hair in their fingers and suddenly
jerking back. Exposed jawline, faux tenderness
sniffed and followed like a sentence.
My limbs have known Bukowskis, drunk and smoking cloves
staring casually at my body thinking: no story here but movement.
This, when I practically glisten in stasis under the heft
of their swagger. My diurnal muscles dimmed
and dampened by articulate fingers
fixing me in glib oil.
My torso’s known weight, has been pricked, pinned
down, hung off the edges of tables and beds, blushes
and vertigos have been sampled by men attempting accuracy
transcribing my body’s blood. Testing phrases, my breasts
have made for magnificent
My heart’s known nothing of poets, is spotless, save for a cliché
of eyelids when things like, I could craft long poems of your legs
have been uttered. Like a murder of moths on the sill, still I refuse
their nocturnal net. Like a mishandled mythology skewered
shadowless on a bedpost, still I trail
my stubborn dust.