2005-03-22 - 6:18 p.m.
immaculate
I cover myself in words
like ever-present undergarments
beneath the layers of my clothes.
My skin has taken on the blueish tint of an inkwell.
When you undress me, the smudges on my skin
become hieroglyphs for you to decode. When you are away, my words are secret incantations
I use to lull myself to sleep, and sunshine to rouse me
in the morning. They are cock and balls
lips tongue hands skin in your absence
the solace I find on nights alone. They are the cord that joins you to me. I wrote a poem on rose petals and strew it into my bathwater,
eyeing the ink as it sidled up to my skin.
It spoke of baby-powder flesh and warm suckling
and new-milk breath. It was hope and wishes.
I drew in a sharp breath. The words seeped into my pores. Something took root beneath the muscles of my abdomen. I awoke the morning I was due to bleed
with a blanket of prose wrapped round my midsection
warming the muscles and keeping the cramps at bay.
The blood did not come – its passage blocked by adjectives
and nouns. How could it flow
without the words for motion? When I lay counting the stars on the ceiling
my stomach pushed the blanket further
and further away from my flattened back. Within a few short months, the word ‘kick’ had appeared
amongst all the others trapped within my belly. They had learned verbs. I will leave these words to stew
deep within the cavern of my body
but one day soon they will force their way out
tearing my flesh as they push insistently
laying claim to their space in the world
screaming. What shall I tell you then?
You are as much a part of these words as I.
What will you say when I pass you this
wriggling, writhing, screaming, bloody
body of words, this awesome new life? Look! She has your eyes and my smile
your fingers and my toes.
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