I unfold the beauty from my limbs,
fold it, careful, in thirds,
place it on the foot of my narrow bed before
the evening—wraps—its arms around me
I unbind the vitality, lightness,
of my Body, hang it up, careful,
this youth I am envied
in a corner of shadows
I unhook the smile, warm and lovely
from my mouth, let it fall
back into its physicality,
—its wetness and weight—
the languid stillness of the tongue
I wrap off this skin,
slip out of all the touches—
stroking, poking, grabbing,
abuse I didn’t ask for,
let them puddle on a dusty patch
of the floor with yesterday’s
jeans, and some underwear I thought was clean
as I melt into bed I am nothing but flesh,
and the smell of sweetened milk,
—I’ve been told— although I wish I could
strip myself of it as well,
both the smell and the knowledge of it,
slip them into a washbowl on the nightstand
let them swirl and tease and turn on
and I be truly, solely, a carnal entity
rotting, every night in linen sheets,
under the hum of the ceiling fan,
petrifying a little dream by dream,
dawn by dawn,
just a decaying heap of flesh
without life,
or beauty,
or warmth,
or any adjective that might make you
want it, and claim it
as yours
Celma Lougredo is a Franco-Swedish poet and student. Her work has appeared in New Reader Magazine, The Writer’s Block and Page & Spine.
I like the “foldedness” of this poem, where the spaces and line wraps echo the content.