honey & lime

Exam

Daisies wrap around

the doctor’s chair. 

What keeps me

from lying? I choose

 

to sit in the corner

so my back won’t face

the door. If I go,

 

where does my body land?

 

In rows of checked boxes, taking 

record of a threatening presence?

 

Before you say no,

I’m wearing the gloves

 

& I won’t open

my legs. My insides already

clamped & lonely.

 

This won’t end

in pink or blue ribbons.

I watch the daisies

tangle & root—

they won’t be mine.

The Clinic

​

1.

 

The doctors show my body 

before the crime—

before I commit

it to something.

 

2.

 

When will the heart begin?

 

3.

 

Outside, rosaries rushing out

of hands: pick a color

you want. To believe this

would actually work—

 

4.

 

The protestors dance around

the devil. What if I made one 

of them the mother? 

 

5. 

 

The fourth anniversary

of what didn’t happen.

 

6.

 

I stop wearing seatbelts.

I want to drive 

across four lanes 

into a field, wonder

what it’s like for my body

to fill its own empty space.