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Then I am up from the pillows,
Draping the bed with
The steam off my skin.
It irrigates the dust
Circling above the sheets
I threw from my nakedness;
My smooth, taut skin,
Now smeared with dark sweat,
Is emaciated by tiny blades
And rough breath.

Here comes the burrowing mole
Sinking his wet nose
Through my memory of secret slavery.

My right hand with purpose again,
Dreaming of his violence.
I am always wanting
His fulcrum
For the breaking of my body.

This is how ankles cry.
This is how a chest floods.