coupled above the asphalt
My body has cells that will not be scattered
by anything other than the sound of the sea.
Its hands are as wrinkled as a petrified forest
in the ocean, as a crushed satin dress.
My body instantly recalls the smell of leaking ink
raw as black blood, and the sight of white butterflies
coupled above the asphalt.
My body cannot heal itself except in a mirror,
my mind removed so far as it is
from its own scaffolding, its skeletal frame.
My body likes to think it has heard a million lawnmowers,
a thousand times the sound of a dog lapping water.
Likes the smell of fermenting plums, dark-red,
defaced by birds.
Remembers the smell of fat, of grass,
of fresh earth. My body tastes salt on its lips,
the sting from a cut on the side of its tongue.
Watches. Breathes. Fingers the tree, the seed,
the grain, the white meat inside the shell.
Like a dog that likes to be where its owner is
my body likes to be where I am.
Kay McKenzie Cooke