My body's a nomad. Even skin
is a burden. They say the uterus
can journey along the limbs,
the train-track nerves, hide
in the space between functions.
I am a nineteenth-century girl,
at home with hysterics.
Want to pack up the baked-brick
bones, rearrange the neural
furniture. Something holds
out its arms, demands up
in the long cells of the muscles;
a traveler in the vessels, always
one beat ahead of the blood.
Not even a scar can stick. Ink
runs, pierced holes close.
The terrain of my body swallows
signposts, refuses to specialize.
Once my heart leapt into my throat
but even that didn't last.
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