Maybe this body has swallowed just a few more daggers
than its slender throat could hold,
already benecklaced in blades and excuses.
Maybe the bottle broke at the lips
and they never even noticed, too consumed
with consumption and too full of the taste
of rot. What good are dusty shards
against a mouthful of sharp things?
Maybe this body, held down by all these sharp things
like paper under a pin, is only hoping
to reach sunrise. Maybe it has sunk into earth
far enough to lose sight of other planets
or anything but the sense of movement, slow
and resolute, its bleeding skin pressed hard
into drinking soil, forgetting the sun
is only one of many stars its quiet eyes no longer see.
Maybe this body only wants another morning
before it lets the trees consume it,
roots hugging ribs, trunk erect like a new spine.
Maybe this body only wants to live
long enough to feel the trees consume it.
Maybe this body only wants