the score is 2:2 but the body doesn't care

then there’s olive oil

in the black curls

not enough to yoke a brillowy cowlick

tongue to the back of the head feeling

if thats what my heart needs

i don’t mind frizz

there’s a dead uncle in the back of my throat 

called uvula 

a swallow is a bird more or less

when cancer is the sign

the long neck between myself

and the mothering plate

of my chest 

where the nest of little injuries

radiates warmth

i guess birth is a fractured shell

a soft pale stomach

psoas to lie discretely between a spine

and everything tender

the tip of a drill cranked through my hip

left its petroglyphs

in the place where blood seeps up 

i’m a dancer there

i wear cotton pants there

i believe in the written record

but soft spoken

mouth moths convey 

condolences from the alcoholics

who grew my knee hair

may they rest peacefully

beneath my ample arches