06.20
I make myself the natural
for you,
for me,
and kneeling in a field of poppies,
grip the nape with both my hands
undress my skin
along the seams.
And then you say,
that it’s not what you meant,
and then you say,
it was only a song.
But still I grasp and pull apart
my ribs with both hands
to separate
what is not me
from what
is not me.
And still you say, please.
You’re asking for
I don’t know what;
you call it an idea.
You call my breasts ideas,
and you call my eyes ideas
and you call the birthmark on my thighs
an idea.
I don’t get all that, but I get this:
I’m tearing apart my ideas,
here among the poppies,
where the sun is shining
and the sun is an idea,
and the clover is spilling over,
and that’s an idea too.
And here’s the idea of my heart,
or, if you prefer Shakespeare,
my spleen is down below.