You learn first what leaks from you. That your lines are
long enough. What slept in you,
over warm weeks: a damp light, and vomit.
You cleave to a body, a new body
cleaves to you. You cleave from that body,
cleave to yourself.
Eyes like freshwater on the moon.
I managed to draw you out of service.
The snow flew in.
Cry, where the lovers leeched, where his cells
did close. That which, starless,
stares back at you: betray it.
Manifold days that I stole your pleated dress,
your beated heart. And I love being found,
the plainsong of your voice. Do you remember the thrill
when our roots crossed? How it would kill us?1A poem after the untitled lithograph by Frida Kahlo.
