This is not the space for me. This is hands wet, feet marooned, back bent

into obedience. Have you been listening to the news? Anchors in blue depths

told me Pluto brings back news from its banishment, and humanity only sighs

at discovery: what a shame this is tile floors gone cold, twilight absence,

the silence between greeting and parted lips, fingers made for plucking

evidence of intimacy from gums discarding affection into the barrels of

guns to be shot into the black of ribs. Tuck your hands, then I will know this is

when I barter for the lining of oak trees — thirty cents for a bit of your skin, mister, but

do not question me when I lift my eyes to redwood, my grace drifting towards how

aching bulges outwards and sinks into itself, pulsing to the breath of wet wind. Watch

bark fold hands into innocence in the shape of feathers crimsoned by sight, and

realize that I, too, once gained from loss. From behind the ivory bars of a bird cage,

remind me of what this is.