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.