190.

I stand mirror-bellied
shard-lipped

I am afraid you have my father’s hands

I am afraid of your fingernails
stand square-hipped, push

glass hips into my bones

break your hands into me

break wave fists into my lungs

tie knots in my hair, tell me it is braided

hide nettles inside, tell me they are flowers

blindfold me at dawn, keep me

sand-throated, dark-lidded

a red new moon

where do you want me, draw me

a lavender bath, draw me half-dressed

half my arm buried

dress dirt-caked, calling my mother back

saying “I’m sorry, I can’t make your birthday”

thanking you for the bath, the new dress

the only arm I have left

eclipse black now, even your hands, even your hands

against the dusk of my skin

I am afraid I will come away from you a painted sky:

bruised blue, purple, green

I am afraid you will call that love

I am afraid I will ask you to
I am afraid I have written this already