Leviticus 15:20

Counterspace
Pleasantries
I Think My Hair is Falling Out and I Think its Her Fault
Leviticus 15:19 Through 28
Aristotle's Lantern
My Accomplice, The Toilet
Cello
-ectomy
My Friend, the Braider, Told Me So
Antibody
Comedo
Fire in the Sink
A Collection
A Celebration

Leviticus 15:20
Shimmied from my body,
my lace crotch
lies open on the floor
with raspberry stains
of my own snakeskin.
Everything on which she sits shall be unclean,
(though the body purifies itself).

Counterspace
Stains. Hard water stains. Stains of hair dye. Live fast, dye young: red, orange, green, blue:
stains. Stains in rings of coffee, of red wine. Red lipstick, caked on my mouth. Hand soap caked
around the faucet handle. Caked-on toothpaste where I set the tube without a lid again and again
and again. Caked mascara on: my face, counterspace. Melted wax from melted candles. Melted
laminate from straighteners and curlers left when I was in a hurry. Curry from when I was told if
I wanted to lose weight I should eat in front of the mirror. A popsicle stick. A sale sticker peeled
from the tag of a gift. Once-sticky snot. Sticky spot of mouthwash that contained alcohol, I swear
officer thats the reason why I blew over. A pump of lotion that flew past my hand, perfume that
missed my breast, hairspray that missed my head. Missed. Mist.

Pleasantries
I.
I am making faces
in the mirror again.
Faces not as pleasant
as the bathwater
whose stillness reflects
overcast window panes
and mocks me.
II.
From a bullet of saliva and spite
disorder spreads
across the image of my pucker,
is absorbed by soft air and faux-porcelain.
III.
I feel a calm surface a wet string moving up my leg,
knotting in my navel,
pulling around my neck.

I Think My Hair is Falling Out and I Think its Her Fault

My friend the braider
came to visit again last night.
She sits on my pillow:
her feet on my shoulders
and crotch on my crown.
She runs her fingers along
the back of my brain as she asks
about my day.
I think my hair is falling out,
(and I think its her fault).
She yanks at my hair like reins on a horse
and she says I should sit still.
I sit, some nights more still than others
but the morning is always the same when
I poke my finger through her work and say
this is no braid, no dread,
this is a knot.
She says everything I do
to my body comes out through the pores
in my armpits and feet,
grows out in my hair, woven into proteins
pressed from my own dead cells.
She says she reads
what has grown from my scalp each day
and gives me what I deserve.

Leviticus 15:19 Through 28

she must

she will

she must

before the LORD

a womans life
is composed of bleeding and begging
forgiveness,
is hanging from a thinning string of uterine lining,
is organized in intervals of seven:
the impurity
of red lace
will last seven days
then, again,
she must
count off seven days, and
she will
be clean for seven days, seven days
to fulfill her bodily purpose,
to fill her body with mans purpose.
if in the time between 19 and 28
I do not use my egg before the LORD
will my body will be broken for you?
eat this bread, it is my breast.
drink this wine, it is my period.

Aristotle's Lantern

I revisit the bruises on my bones

as I press my hunched spine
into the wall and bow
to examine my sea urchin:
Its cove, dark and damp
between the crevice of my thighs.
The thick, black spikes
do not resemble the flower petals
I was told I would possess
so I cut away
at the bristle to no longer be dark,
but soft, to trade tough for tender.
But beyond pink lips,
I still find Aristotles Lantern:
five flat teeth, and five firm muscles
that break through cement
and steel, that move individually
so to open and close
not unlike a flower.

My Accomplice, The Toilet

Its a filthy job, I know,
despite the white collar
I rest my cheek on.
My throat singes
from the acid Ive churned
and Im jealous of your steel pipes,
of your cold stomach.
You swallow the evidence but
its no favor to me when
nothing is left to remember
as we both become sober
and you are restored
to your clear waters,
me, my clear head.

Cello
C-oming out like worms in the rain and
G-athering at my toes, hairs are
D-rawn from my body by
A shower head song.
C-aught, they dangleas spaghetti is pulled by
G-ravity through colanders
D-own the drain
A-mong other strings:
Cream-colored and sweet, from a cat.
Greying yellow from a sad blonde who brushed my shoulder at the store.
Dark and dumb from some fuck who decided to make himself at home.
A half dozen shaved pubic hairs tied together and tuned
accordingly.

-ectomy
My bladder cries
and my legs are tired
of being the designated driver.
Brain, always the bad guy,

forces my eyelids apart.

My lungs let out a sigh from inside of my torso

who holds them
lungs, bladder,
and stomach, kidneys
all childhood friends
inside
by my heart
weighing me down.
In the dark, my shin shrieks in too sharp a turn around the bed frame
and everything falls to the pelvic floor.

10

My Friend, the Braider, Told Me So

How typical of me
to walk outside after a shower
and only think twice
once my shoulders are sagging
from the weight of my hair
in a block of ice,
solidified by the wind.
How typical of me
to think I could drip dry.

11

Antibody
I carry hitchhikers between my fingerprints in capsules of oil.
I pick them up off doorknobs and pencils,
over coffee and under neon signs.
They warm on my skin as they introduce themselves and
soon, my antibody joins.
I warn her not jump to conclusions;
not to assume I will want to be entered,
not to assume I will need to be saved.

12

Comedo
I once pushed
a needle
past
my skin
to release
the pressure
from behind
my face
and like
tri-flavored
toothpaste
I squeeze
white
then clear
then red
maybe
a hair
that decided
to turn around
and go home
I press
a tissue
to my broken flesh
pink and
pulsing
a pocket-dial
SOS
and pus
comes
rushing
to the rescue
your body
is here
to save you

13

Fire in the Sink

There's a fire in the sink.
Contained under a faucet,
just in case.
It pops when it catches
speckles of toothpaste
and spit.
What use can I make
of the yellow plaque Ive scraped,
the yellow fingernail Ive grown,
a yellow hair that is not mine?
I burn brandy over my old bones and throw
the charcoal dust in the air, letting it settle
on the wet around my eyes.

14

A Collection
I absorb granules of
oxygen and sunlight
from within the scavenger bags
that are my pores.
They collect moisture and minerals,
dust and dirt, parabens and sulfates,
artificial fragrance and red dye 40.
I place a soapy bubble in each pore
like an easter egg and
water rushes in and out
to empty my pockets.
Tomorrow will not slide
past the oil on my face.

15

A Celebration
I love myself when I am sleeping.
I love the dough of my muscles
when they are warm
and fluffed with air.
Under the damp cheesecloth of my skin,
I love my limbs
when I am sleeping.
I love my hair when I am sleeping,
especially when the tide is high.
I love to surf the waves
that ripple outward from my brain,
when I am sleeping
my consciousness extends
11 inches past shoulder length.
I love my knees when I am sleeping,
because they do not know
that I am sleeping. I love the stories
that they make up and move to
with bends of steps and kicks
that make me sweat and I love
my sweat when I am sleeping.
I love my face when I am sleeping.
I love the handsome
in my cheek, to press it
between my teeth and sheets.
When its weighted by
my dreaming mind,
I wake in morning rouge.

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