A wound, drawn by hand,
spilling the memory the body forgot,
insides and outsides, all of a one.
She considers her own image,
the book is a mirror.
The crooked scar hums with possibility.
The poem tastes salty, sweet.
Fluctuations in heart rate and breathing,
visceral sensation and so on.
There is a crossing over, a voyage,
and a world beneath the world,
not a retreat but a way of negotiating pain,
negotiating with the Agent of Pain,
who tells her she’s done nothing
to earn her own suffering
and puts her to work
witnessing the suffering of others,
day in, day out, until her jaw aches
from the horror she doesn’t have the language