Yes, I’ve delivered my hips
to the mechanic for revision,
sir.
Metal on skin.
Grit is the explanation for our existence:
the insanity of hands,
this free market
of submission.
Yes,
sir,
I carefully fold my yin every morning.
I’ve left it in the linen closet,
beneath the nappies
and vacuum bags.
Sometimes I forget it’s even there.
But these sins you’ve listed,
sir,
which is crimson?
Skin?
Melody?
Wilderness?
Perhaps it’s my familiarity with the river,
the violet curves of my yearning.
They’ve called me many names:
wicked
dangerous
unpainted.
Unfit for business ownership.
I’ll take whatever label you choose,
sir,
if it makes it easier
for your paperwork
to contain me.
But just listen,
sir:
I need no pagination,
no stakeholders.
I flow
like atoms […]
in the spaces
between
your collocations.
No,
sir,
I am not complacent.
The mechanic says my body needs breaking,
for I am not shattered enough.
All it takes is a vocabulary
to shackle my imagination:
My father’s last name. Catcalls.
Proxy bids on my fingers. Screens,
loading. Screens, flashing. Screens,
capturing, fragmenting, pigmenting
any loose-fitting liberty, any lavender
expression of divinity.
Move quickly, break things.
But just listen to me,
sir –
this isn’t the world we birthed.
The lilies have wilted.
The yellow bird isn’t singing.
The spring of my body is buried
beneath the fists of your industry.
My curves aren’t written in your histories.
Be indignant. Be wary.
Be weary, worn, wide-eyed,
worried.
Be concerned.
Be ready.
There’s a crack in my bathroom window,
sir.
Alabaster.
An opening.
The neighbors have brought home their baby –
Mary, named after her mother’s mother
who sold her lashes for candlewax […]
to pay her taxes.
She didn’t keep the receipt.
There are tragedies that cannot be filed,
sir.
Our bodies hold a capital
we cannot claim.
The phone rings.
Your hips will be ready for pick-up this Wednesday, miss.
Please bring your ID.
Next door,
the baby cries.
Let them try to silence her,
sir.
Just let them try.