Moist Adagio

Moist Adagio

Almost that time, cervix
yawns like a camera shutter,
red eye of the mimosa
opening and closing.
A loosening in the uterus.
Spring rain.

This time last month
my head ached, stomach
fermenting like a vat of milk,
my back taut as harp strings.
In the morning when you
withdrew, there was blood
everywhere, poppy blossom
in the middle of the bed,
the pillows streaked with it.

I am a clock in the linen,
its edges on fire,
body stretched thin as a curtain.
When the night came
my bed was still wet,
pockets of melting snow.
Your voice on the phone
is disembodied:
a violin singing under water.

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