|Fotografia de Ju Peppe Tortora|
It´s overdetermined, the body —
a sum of rigid limits. Filament nerves
swan-necked around blunt fingertips.
A dorsal branch
ramified at the tender nail-bed,
every sinew and fiber held at wait and want.
Heart wants out, lungs want air.
They never say enough.
The mouth gives up whatever is formed there –
t´s and d´s clip the enameled incisors.
The brain, skullbound and wrapped
in spider´s web
knows everything about desire.
Knows that what happens happens
to you, for you.
The head is almost an island,
at the outer edge imagined meets real,
silt of one embracing the other.
The test of truth is whether fabric leaves a mark
where skin pressed itself.
Last night, a red wine stain bent the head
of the one who lifted it,
the weaver´s grown daughter; her hair kissed
my right hand, a palm full of nerve endings
identical to those that hug the tibia of a rabbit
coat the tongue of a duck.
Across the room, a man´s shadow grazed mine.
Scars are formed by such abrasions:
the shrouded want of cheek and shoulder
that arms can´t reach, throat refuses to ask.
Mary Jo Bang