There are things my body is not telling me:

late nights and friends I’ll never meet.

The yellowing bruise on my hip.

Strangers who ask, Haven’t we met?

Pine needles threaded through my black knit dress

and I have not left the city in months.

Morning when my body thinks me asleep,

I listen to it work.

A soft-footed rummaging,

the slow sharpening of bones.

Suddenly, a femur thrust through thigh,

a door opened, the body no longer at home.



Dani Couture (Canada, 1978 -)

from Sweet. Toronto: Pedlar Press, 2010

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