The walls hang crooked.
The bottoms don’t touch.
The outside seeps
in like a heavier metal.
My skin a feast for any jaw
that can close on it. Quiet
heart, quiet your clanging
is waking the children.
There are no children. How
can even a bell be
out of tune. I mean, I can’t hear
the tune. I mean,
if I can’t hear it, how can
the heart be in it? The welts
rise up. The body a red
and white sand paper.
Give me something to rub
against and smooth.