Tracing Convexity

Published in the Little Somethings Press’ s hand-stitched, recycled anthology (Poetry)

Tracing Convexity

I ask the night: Is this giving up a body the same way my life will hand over its corpse to soil? Will I be absent now—displaced from skin crunched between earth’s teeth, hermit shell-phoenix, like how we name graveyard trees and pretend? Will these eyes see myself, nomadic, the faint glow of sun in space or am I rooted—unfamiliar bark? In black, rabbits burrow, as if trying to go counterclockwise. I used to wonder what creature I’d become—if I’d like her. Crickets cover our bare backs in song, moon-syrup drizzled from the peaking blinds. I look to the mirror in the naked hours, but I admit I still do not know.