The Iowa Review - - NEWS -

Throw me for that loop again. The birds are in the trees, singing noli me tan­gere. So, tan­gere. Tango with my breath, my teeth. You and your wine-translu­cent skin. I’ve got a dis­ease called “some­day” or “some­where.” How best to break open me: think about how small I am. Wrap one hand com­pletely around my waist. Whis­per some­thing I can­not hear, that I don’t want to hear. Whis­per gamine fin­ger­nails and bur­row them in the soft floor. Tell me the swimming pool was shal­low and clear un­til I lay naked in it. You licked some­thing clean away. Say what it was, I won’t know. The bed looks how it looks with­out you in it, like a bur­row. When I get the pieces to­gether, you’re go­ing to want to hear about it.

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