listen, I tell you from behind
at the bathroom mirror holding my wrist
to your ear. still slowly you lean
toward your face you fear is too close
to ecru. you finger cheekbone skin
as if splitting eggshell halves
to free the embryo inside. you’re still
hunted by a ghost whose breathprints
none of us have scrubbed true
from our bodies. no—it’s not punishment
you’re after wishing tissue
could spill proof of what we used
to look like. no—you crave more than
the masochistic act. you want
to sound the red bell of retribution—
have god throw open his gate and invite
you back into yourself. but, baby, I wonder
has it ever been possible to dream
oneself back into an existence one
already is? and for what?—since
the craniometer has rendered
its final measurements for all who care
about the size of skulls to see. the ghost still
floats inside the shack within us all,
still fingering tears travelling
roads of dark cheeks that have led us
to where we are now: I press my pelvis
into the back of you and together
we shut our eyes in order to hear clearer
a reconciled rush of blood.