He’s scalpel, parting
skin from breasts, breath from lungs.
She lies on printed paper, pretty
as gift wrap. His gloves pry secrets
between her thighs – the sky splits,
trees stripped bare tongue depressors.
Rubbing alcohol, soap, a sanitized
Monet and diagram
of the human ear. Patting her,
he says, Desire
is the source of our suffering.
She watches the words pierce
the purple ear drum, lodge
in the hair cells of Corti.
How do you take back
what you don’t know is stolen?
Listen! Flesh isn’t mute,
the body speaks in blooded dreams.
Oh, to be able to say, this and this and this,
in a language only
stars understand. They’d burn
his hands to stumps, place grace
above his head, forgiveness at his feet.
Paul a Kolek is a current MFA poetry candidate at the University of Miami: Her poems have been published in Ditch, Otoliths, EOAGH, and RECONTRUCTION: Studies in Contemporary Culture and have been accepted for New Letters. She has also had a monologue presented in The Krane’s production of Monologues Lingus .