At first, not even a sheet on me,
anything at all is painful, a plate of
lead laid down on the nerves, I lie there
and slowly I cool off—hot,
warm, cool, cold, icy, till the
skin all over my body is ice
except at the places where our flesh touches
like tiny bonfires. Between the door
and its frame, and between the transom and its frame,
the hall-light burns in straight lines
which cast up beams on the ceiling like a headless
figure flinging up her arms for joy.
In the mirror, the angles of our room seem calm,
it is the hour when we can see that the angle itself is blessed,
I gaze, in the mirror, at the smokey bulbs
of the chandelier, I feel I could be
looking at my ovaries, it is
clear that everything I see is real
and good. We have come to the end of questions,
you move your palm along my face
over and over, over and over, as if
putting the finishing touches on, before
sending me down to be born. But I don't
want to be born, I want to stay here
with you.
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