SEX POEM

After my daughter is pulled wet & writhing
from my body,

my desire ciphers, becomes a
yet untranslated language.

                             Becoming an expert of anything
                                              is mostly a matter of attention.
Before, I could abandon my body
by going further inside it.

In the vast country of me,
in the city of me,

on the quaint, tree-lined street of me,
I swam.

Now, out of love or urgency
I am always pressed right against

the edge of myself—I won’t be coaxed
easily into those black,

cool waters, which used to be so
ordinary that I would find small droplets

on the inside of my wrist, running down
the back of my thigh, even after we were

finished & I resumed vacuuming small piles
of cat hair from the carpet or chopping

the length of a carrot. Such spacious days
that in theory, I could be whatever I wanted.

I struggle with my simultaneous selves
because they’re like strangers at a bar;