to make more of her. All these almost women
but no man to anoint them real. Isn’t that it? How we move
a dancefloor unanointed, un-manned –
I see men
who tried make to me from their ribs
in places they aren’t, in people with different faces.
Thought I’d double myself in poems
to make more of me. I wanted to speak to me, to see my face
seeing my face more clearly. I protect by
obscuring, to disfigure myself unrecognizable, to make new
versions of the same. I look so ugly-jealous. She sees
something in me, a pyrite glint set in rocks
she’ll pocket. All over her house, altars. I sit at each one
looking. I don’t dream of the dead anymore
but I’m sure they’re still around. She dreams more, now.
I have sat down with each man I loved
to tell them I’ve changed, they appear to me
with hindsight. In each dream, they sit quiet
and eat to spite me. They fill and fill, I watch. I wanted them
to multiply me in their image. I wanted them to want
several of me at once and each diverted their gaze, so I found others
to bend me in their hands.
When we close
into each other’s bodies, we seal microdistances,
collapse unrecognizable and dazed in sex in a room
of only our breath. I build houses there
to choose from. You can have a room in each one,
a room for only this closeness, a room for
silence that clings to each tacked frame.
I build houses for she and I with each rib I cracked
to make more of her, of each of my ribs
broke open & emptied of marrow, building houses
we become doors to, opening for the other –