Coroner of the Self

I touch the body and know nothing but inventory— nails entombed in graveyard dirt, spoilt cloth huddled at the feet, girlhood spent on wishbone, all unselved beneath the skin

I touch the body and know the only flesh left unturned stews in old stomach bile.

I measure worth in sharp edges: canine, knuckle, elbow, knee. The rotten thing puts up a good fight.

I touch the body and know how lungs always suffocate on truth, how worry-slick palms soothe a drowsy path to sawtooth hips. As violets petal at the wrist, I must call the vessel mine.