The contours of the girl blur. She is both becoming and fact.
A rancor defines the split. Rip into. Flatten the depth of voice. That
urgent flex peels off the steady layers. A girl, I say.
Girl. Gu-erl. Quell. He. He—unbuttons before emergence.
As in yard rake pressed to roof of mouth. A fragrant rod.
Suh—sssuh—ssuck. Insistence. Lips go lisp. Our brutish boy.
Having not ever been whole. Or simple. Or young. Just split and open.
Not of it. For it. Born a cog of hard wheel at five, six, seven . . .
What to know of what has never been?
No common place would do: bar stool, front porch, sea rock.
Such a room should crawl into the soul. Stretch it. Contort it.
Could be the straddle of this stranger at the neck. I am this.
She does not waver. She is twenty-five. The bed is wet. As many
as had done this thing before. The wound is rupture. Blood-faced.
Between sailing and anchor. No, between shipwreck and burial.
What does the mouth do? It does not mean no, saying no.
It does not mean yes. It gurgles. It swells. It is comfort.
A quick kick. Mighty, mighty.