At the curve you move your hand from my thigh back to the steering wheel. A cold spot left— the shape of your palm the shape of our continent: How are you still self-conscious about your nervous palms after all these years?
Out of the sweat you leave— another leg grows and another. Another leg. Soon over 100— Leg out of legs. Thick trunks. Thigh against thigh against thigh against windows and doors. I fill the car with so many limbs and shoes.
I’m taking up too much space again. I worry I worry too much: all the ways I know this world is just a body we’ll never love. But still I want to fall asleep inside your spine.
and feel small and not go to the grocery store on Sundays. God, it takes so much energy to feed myself so little. It takes so much hunger— to let you want me.