A bird, a bug, a something flying in the air,
And I’m spinning, unwrapping this present,
You touch me, and I feel spools of yellow and periwinkle blossoming inside,
My organs are gone and all I have is sex,
Displacement of what?
Is skin the organ that holds sex in place, or is it sex itself?
Flesh is more than skin,
The flesh of my shoulders is a bruise which moves as I walk and talk,
Which shifts like an earthscape,
Reminding me sharply of your touch.
The flesh of my upper chest is boutonnièred with your toothprints,
My wrists are circled in blue and violet.
Is flesh the reminder, or is it the slow molasses feeling of coming as it slides from my throat to my cunt and down my legs when I think of looking at you?

I wash my flesh each morning,
The hot water and scented soap cleaning dreams from my skin,
So that memories have a place to nest.