Amaranth Borsuk

Body to body, tell me      what is felt―

this self’s surface,      or another’s. Where

does body end?      How faceted the

between-space      where contact tells us

more than we can      compute, then less?

In arrangement      ―back to front,

back to back,      hastily stacked―

the brain hates      ambiguity

and the eye is      resolute. Above all

it makes sense      of what it sees; limbs

and teeth cannot      confound it. Under

bootshine, though,      how does mind

hold slippery bodies,      how map

what’s outside known      boundaries?

 The brain cannot make      it cohere.

It’s true, Dear, in this      setting

body shines no longer       ―the blurred edge

of proprioception.      The key of “d” so

close to where you      “r” makes you,

dear, nearly dead.       Not knowing what

we feel makes a      handsome tactile

illusion. And if      we did so, gnosia?

Would we still      find something to grope for?

Old salt sailor, bad

brother, a pinch, small ache

mauler,

chamming salt horse.

Salacia’s lachrymal

mach waves wash over

[a new dark]

[more than at first understood]

[looked into the spark’s mouth]

[could not find]

[familiar arms]

expected the same

[and waited]

[   ]

[gathered its tools]

[shock and shame]

obtained papers

[braced for a full stop]

[   ]

she was kind

after

[wandered inside]

[a place for put-up music]

[opposite winter]

[written: return]

[   ]

[a laying-by]

[language no one spoke]

[opened its wounds]

[rough shell]

[not new, but myrtle]

ornamental

[open your lips]

[let fly your white stars]

 

You come with all your

offerings, your core burn,

sodium light

on your face:

hopeful, heart-

crossed,via salaria.

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