I
He looked like a superhero
without the mask,
all white and stony stern
with a whip in his eyes.
He held me but he
wouldn’t know
how I kissed the secret
on his flesh: cwtch.
I could hide in his shirt’s long shadow
unzip my crusted eyes
with the gag of his scent
silencing my skin.
How much of me is my body?
II
Something new, electric
buzzed to life as synapses
kissed. Eureka!
moaned the monster
at the mirror.
I could become
the paint that rings around
the eye,
the spokes that peer out from
the heart,
the dye that bleeds on
the bathroom floor.
How much of me is my body?
III
It latched like a
small child would,
rode the world on
my spinal cord,
giggling with its
teeth like hands
clutching my eyes.
I could melt away
with that moment,
seep into the cracks
of the rocking earth
under my empty shoes.
How much of me is my body?
IV
And here we have
enshrined a blob
in a blobbier container.
Its goopy transcendence
can teach and mend us
like all sound-wounds can.
I could condemn my eyes
to sentences, dislocate
them, roll them like dung
balls into someone
else’s skull, warm them
‘til they fall apart like questions.
How much
of me is
my body?