He took something out of me —
a buoyant oval shell, a structure

for control. I keep myself so zero
and clean, a neatly arranged red

scream. But every new morning
brings its own weight, a sinking

meat with no spaces for breath.
Whatever lightness was in me

is feeding a bird in a horizontal
cage, or breaking into pill-white

powder. I want to dissolve inside
a different body. I have shredded

the old body plan, made distance
between that gray panicked heat

and me. I am not now who I was,
but I have another use. I could be

a pattern for a soft metal circle
hidden inside bone, filled with

molten gold instead of air. I could
rest cold on the windowsill at night

or wash down the drain with red
and soap, let myself go boneless

until I touch the floor of the ocean.
I could sit there with the open dead

and watch the fish turn their bodies
into points of light tucked into sky.

Human Uses by Danielle Weeks

Photo used under CC.