The Skin Is a Tent

that holds desire in—taut like ripstop
over ribs	arched back in pleasure—whip

of whether—lash of self-restraint
In dream I pin you down	       between breast-

bone and hard ground—granite spine
of mountain, room blue   	with air—pleural

space of atmosphere   	which I long
to puncture	       exhale exhaustingly—unless

sex	       is sleeplessness	       in full sun 
under mosquito-spattered tarpaulin—torn

between a gut-punch of
lust & reason	   I tell myself not to trust

the body’s barometer	  The night 
doctor	     stitches up the self-

inflicted cuts—forearm like a shank
of deer      	With tweezers tugging fissures—

first the fascia          web-thin and wet
then a dulled rasher of fat and skin	           To keep

the flensed muscle	       beating in 
With deft knots I suture for self-

control	      but the fabric sags	    fades with age 
Lines I’ve left unsaid	    write my face

I gape in places—red	       gash 
sewing words together

With my other wound I want to 
unzip you             	from you—

Read more from Issue 16.2.