by Cyndle Plaisted Rials
Break your soul over my body
like an egg—not like a gem-encrusted
egg on a hutch, that splits
in a predestined spot, a specific range
of opening. I want to see the harsh crack
lines like a mountain silhouette—quick, calligraphic,
one picture, one word. You are an unhealed
cut, on a knuckle or knee—opening
every time I bend. Sharp like one note plucked
on a guitar.
I bit the inside of my cheek
when I chewed and now it has this ugly
habit of insinuating itself, of finding
its way between my teeth again and again.
Things like orange juice
give it rusty edges.
I desperately want to stop
writing you onto every page, letting every subject
suggest you so shamelessly, the way a round
follows itself—when stopped, the same
song, just in a different place.
I wanted to say
something not about you—that was