Heavy (After Hieu Minh Nguyen)

Dusk-road home with my head out
the window, honeysuckle

wind and huge melon-moon lidding
the mountain, movement

makes my body light again, full of fire
following gunpowder

to the keg. Often blame sits loose
on my hipbones—clay thrown

on the wheel, spun unfingered to an apple
bottom. Sometimes my body is

a mixed metaphor, fixed brass
and a heaving sea in a season

of storms. I want someone
who’s never known that body I was

to touch me—or else, someone
who knew it long

ago to return and knead
my ass cheeks like dough. Sometimes I think

I gave my body more
of itself so it would be less

tempted, less tempting—
I’m afraid I couldn’t say

no. I want to be
good, I said. I want to—

yes, hear me—
be again full.