by Erika Walsh
I stare at myself in the mirror; press my lips
into the heart
of some forgotten religion. The bell tolls (and
it’s still tolling). The steam
curls up under my eyelids, and I’m always waiting,
but I forgot what for;
it never comes.
There is nothing notable
about the way
the moon curves into your stomach. There is nothing
ethereal about it (you step inside of the bell;
I can’t see you anymore). I will not recognize God
until it hums inside of me. Even then,
how could I be sure?
My body aches
to be remembered, but I cannot
love it
until it loves me back. Right? (The bell still tolls;
I don’t hear it anymore). You kiss me
back into my birth.
The marrow of my bone
is so yellow. Sour against
my skin. Sensitive, like some
rotting fruit. Seedless. The inside
of the bell (still tolling)
is a shade of gold
my bones
will never be.
We pray to every cloud,
but they don’t look down
to find shapes
in the curvatures
of our guilty
spines. You never looked at me
the way I wanted you to (Still,
we toll),
and sometimes, we remember.