I just read your poem about blue movies
and train tracks. About westerns
and beautiful singing women murdered.
Everything is a dialogue with me lately.
Everything is tortured

or murmured.
I am unable to be a little girl.
I will never have days like you had.
And yet I can behold thunder,
calculate the deaths of former lovers

or the years spent lonely and lax about orgasm
collections—I too gave into the violence,
quiet inappropriate violence that lived
on the surfaces of hard-to-pronounce organs,
organs of feeling and unfeeling.

If you’re not careful they’ll take your organs away.
Technology is such now that knives are so thin
you don’t even feel the insertion as you sleep.
Did I say insertion—I meant incision,
but it’s all the same thing: a laceration,

a lacewing, a laconic reaction to a wounding.
We have been wounded simultaneously.
I touch my belly and feel your heartache.
I touch the cheek of an apple and feel your
muscles move—the ones that pull upon weeping.