Wrens Wrench

Have you heard the tale about the woman who confused her lover with her sister? Somehow she turned him into a woman. Or perhaps he changed on his own, as under a spell. Sometimes things happen that way. They walked through a field with their eyes shut, holding hands, the colors of the field negatived, the space between their fingers became solid.

Topography turns inward like a peeled sock.

I have thought about you so much you have become unsexed, disembodied, dolled in the worst meaning of the word. I have gnomed you in my worlds,
ripped the rib from the ribbon.

For any given body
that begins and ends in empty space,
     imperfect symmetry vibrates.

Things taken from my romance with human unity:
The word ‘torque’ must bring ‘torture’. My backspace is broken.
I am one with the space bar. Its longness. Its flatness
     and blankness and fecundity.

I slouch on the conveyer belt between terminals.

To be the bar
between the current of flight and inside space, lit by
     artificial light,
wandering more unbearable
than an airport just before dawn. Contours break down in sweat.

White bed with black stripes.
When the leopard enters and drops its spots.
Yellow stains, eaten birds, eviscerated zebras. These things that do not feature in urban settings fall through the body in crisis.

The spots on your back. Is this one cancerous? I wondered. The spots moved.

What exactly does fire in the head invoke
in this personal circus?

Science lab, adolescent fumbling,
stale blue rubber,
sterile pins.

The bright red peanut of a frog’s heart.

Brown spots on the stable floor. Dust in alien beams
of energy feathering
through the cracks.

One of my most enduring memories as a child
     was watching Jumanji.
When the fly-rich zoo animals erupt
and the room becomes a vortex. What is lush. What
     emanates from shit.
Of pheromones, of tears, of pits.

When I entered sexual vocabulary
all I wanted to do was play the game,
wrote my pullulating friends into some kind of
     Jumanji-esque landscape.

First there was white, nothing space, belts of
     vehicle-free gradations,
and then not light,
but the darkness of bodies.

Extract the lover.
Where is the real
wiggling seed,
what is it about
the microscopic bean,
the crevice that being
irrupts with forks.

The space between the legs of forks.

Want to know the flesh, the forks of space.

Meal of contours.

Small blue lights make lines.

A migratory streak of gold from the wayward slat in the window
lashes your neck.

Hands everywhere like wrong birds, wrong planes.

The higher and higher, the gouge-red lift in the body during take-off.

The mass of
her body
with an exit
that cannot
be closed
once opened
in emergency.