Swimming into deep leeks,
my feet a tailfin, the fish of myself
The smell of pear & bone,
The maw of a dog delving my neck.
The way an apple or a knife tastes.
You finding me the way a flood
finds a canyon. The way I understand myself
is a piano tipped over, the way music is a first wife
wherever music lives. I unbelted you
beneath the beak of the moon. Marigolds
broken from the hose. Something about the way
you lift me free from a yellow bathing suit.
My skin slaps the rock of the deck. I’ve forgotten
nothing, not even how to unzip your name.
The uneasy bird of your sex flying into me,
smashing into windows, hitting a blind head
where there is nothing to find, nothing new,
U-turns & dead ends. Shaking nothing loose,
nothing free at all. I want to feed you milk
by the teaspoon, I want to retrieve my bathing suit
from the complex pool drain. I want something to
happen, so that the deck is not alive w/ the curved-needle
beaks of dead birds. The smell of the Pacific is so
cold in March. I forget that my inside self
is the bottom. When you speak of love
my tongue is caught in a hive of red threads.
The way children hide fishing hooks inside a sandwich
so that a gull become a tortured kite. How once you
have bitten, you will hang. Birds flying out of me,
anything that is believable drenched.
Emily Vizzo is a writer and educator. Her essay, “A Personal History of Dirt,” was noted in Best American Essays 2013, and she was selected for inclusion within Best New Poets 2015. Frances Goldin Literary Agency represents her novel, and her chapbook, GIANTESS, is forthcoming from YesYes Books in 2018.