Love carved me in stained glass
like a new tattoo. Call me a curio, one Hottentot show. Ask
how I learnt to admire the prettiest bruise. Or how a body
can be sold into anything. O what soiled words I could fit my
lips around. And, body, found object whose hole can hold
anything. If I embrace this emptiness, all puppetry is possible.
I stuffed most of myself down his snow-globe exotica, found
room for my black head on his mahogany shelf. Squeezed
between David Foster Wallace and a gilded map of the
Americas. He liked his women unspoken, the body
imperfect. To mark and remark that terrible wound. No
matter if sugar was dulled and unconscious. He preferred to
invent a person there. He ached to be inside, thought he
deserved to claim it; as if there was something here to be
reclaimed. Some mystery codified in the dark bone. As if a
self could be unowned.