The red hue of my cheeks falters, I am floating alone
Water condenses on my pores, like the breasts of new mothers,
The body that has not been touched in a week
Nursed into submission by ceramic tile and factory soap.
My body taught me everything I need to know about living
Except how to die.
I hold back retching with steamboats,
The factory line pumps grease into my veins.
I swell to absorb the room, then shrink
To bones wrapped in a towel
Like a cocoon that shattered too soon.
Yet I survive amidst the factory line and its failures
Where hot oil burns white flesh
And does not call it a mistake.
I am not clean, boiling in the dirt of last week,
The tub grows murkier with memories,
My skin fades under it.
The factory line has begun failing.
The poetry on my skin, swirls of soapy matter
Takes no concrete form,
It only looks like liquid air
It looks like my body decorated in song,
Wrapped in melody.
I do not know how I can think I am beautiful
Without seeing a body
For what it is.
The factory line resumes.
The Rape Language:
can be spoken loudly, the two legs of the female –
quotation marks circling his back. the curl of ten
it seems as if someone should be speaking,
with the movement. she tries. everything
is heavy. the words fall like misplaced moans
into croaks, he can only hear
can be spoken softly, slurs and giggles. a gasp –
but only that – when suddenly a mouth is wet
the sky is drunk, like her, like
God, like anything that walks by
while a man