Symphonies, and: Stitched

Symphonies

Buzzards circle overhead

when he touches the scarred surface. In this       prophecy a body is strewn about

the empty streets, limbs disconnected       from carcass, a blood red

river flows outside its boundaries.       This is where skin becomes tinted

or tainted—the origin of war paint       has always been blood. The origin

of sex has always been need.       When he touches

what has not been touched       in some time (some equaling

a number that takes itself too seriously       but also less than the number of orgasms

I've faked,       which is to say, not seriously enough),

I'll replace his silence       with the absence of symmetry.

A cacophony, not like song       at all, like the moments between death

and decay when bodies are ripe for       the pulling and the picking and scavengers,

unable to hide their lust, call out       to each other, staking their claim.

Which cut has the sweetest       memories? They ca-caw and caw and caw.

Although sex has been chalked       up to that which came before cancer,

that is to say not a current dilemma,       I miss what won't be there each time

a hand traces symphonies       across my chest.

I already miss sex with my       perfectly worrisome body.

The inches of waist—too many,       the hips—too high

and breasts, well,       they had their own history.

Stitched

A thinking woman sleeps with monsters. The beakthat grips her, she becomes.adrienne rich

In suffering

a woman's body,like a broken music box,

can be cranked and cranked and stillnot produce music.

When asked, why don't you playsomething pretty

for me darlin'?, she catches fire.

Show me a woman held together without sutureor safety pin or excuse

for the things men do and I'll show youa woman with a story

she's never told a soul.