Studies for the Sound of Self
She has a way of turning leaves
down the road with her voice—
soft scratch-scatter and it’s altogether
not her anymore, still moving, still hoping for the
twist in the knee, the slight sore bend
in a knot at the edge of the bed
Skin like a fist in a sock, stretching
as far as
the sound of the give,
just before the give
He’s got her
like that, here for so long:
the twist of her hips
the painful cramp
of sleep or never
moving from sleep,
though she wants to,
though her body tends that way—
Then everything’s looser
even when there is no rip
there is
the sound of the tear
All her limbs are thrown in that direction
and her leg another stripe in the sheet,
thick white with veins
just slow blue there
under the surface,
and somewhere in that twist
is the scream of her pulse,
the artery in her thigh.