self portrait by Bella Harris
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Ode to MetastasesI look for plums in your hands
but there are never any. You lose them
in a sea of mahogany: body less than a god,
less than a salad of olives & tumors & velvet hands.
You wrap your body with gauze. Still
a gulf of an open wound where I can reach my hands in
& root around. A sore plum, a spine, a swamp.
I turn south to this feeling.
Too small to be swallowed by a fish.
What I desire does not matter. Rearrange
your limbs, paint them silver
as bait. I don’t dare ask you how
you’d disfigured both palms so. We run
through a dream full of wet plums, all adrift, my hands
dragging them back. All this talk of purple
makes you swallow, slow tongue searching for sweetness
on the roof of your mouth. Where
the blood runs. Where the pulse ripens.