she drags the needle though the red
body of the thread, back stitches
my shoulder blades, my sacrum,
the pulse points at the corners
of my lunates. i keep red just under
the tip of my pitted tongue, but do not
let it loose, do not stop this
staggering. & listen, i’ll admit, i
wanted
the stigmata, the gentle puncture.
i want to be bound into the horror
of this body. i want the want, the
desire in someone else’s eyes for this
unholy frame, my graveyard of a
chest. so
when she says color, i grind out
green, even as the flashback rises up
the tendrils of my throat —
what else could my body have been
made for, if not this stringing— what
good is the tolerance if you don’t
know how to put it to use —
all i know is fawn, wax and wane,
count to ten and back, say thank you
every time. i forget where my breath
lives, forget i am more than a
whimpering against someone else’s
knuckles, more than a mess
waiting to be made by any hands
that will have it.
tonight, i will rub the raw out
of my purpling skin, go out under
the full moon, dig my hands into
the maw of silt, drag up the teeth of
the earth. i will make a lamb of
myself one more time, lay myself
open across another altar. i will tell
her to consume me. she will say
Art by Lois Emma Harkin