some days, I draw a canonic
nude of the body as an s.
I replace the fingers
for clovers and mistake them
for quiet as it looks
on days where sometimes
there are no cicadas & it’s silent.
on paper, I graft the spine
from the neck, brooked to the right lung,
towards the lacuna,
an inch to the middle. beneath
it, there’s the vermin’s pylorus, how a nude
should be, really, exposed & easy
to touch. the ribs’ tongue is spitting
a limb, a bone, makes a language
not theirs: enough to kill
another rib the size of a human torso
shrunk like jerky, dry-twisted. the body’s jargon
is not a computation
of the transitive, how the property
makes an A the length of a B as a C.
no, here an A is not a B, nor
a C, not an armor, but agape
and squalled. i pencil in the skin
as an eggshell, & nearby an attester
cavils till its mouth cracks like bones.
already, the body has mated.
Alisha Yi is a writer from Las Vegas, Nevada.