Goshogaoka

“. . . just the girls and their routines . . .”
—Tim Martin for the Museum of Modern Art

They said:
“keep writing

about the body. Also that “the ones who keep writing will
always write.” Like: the scab that heals, but: scar tissue.

Your heart may be a little candlewax.
Your heart may smoke of palo santo.

Solving for the mission, I pull each paper
from the fortune teller’s desk.

You may ache on the left side.

It is Tuesday so you seek a new fate
for your spine.

Balance the datebook on your head for maximal alignment.

During the days with crystal-and-glitz
in-check, I was a locked box
with a clock inside. I timed every move of my bone,
down to the finish line.

Play with girls but be as strong as boys.
You may ache on the left side.

When I
was young,
I didn’t smile

for photographs. When they ask why
she doesn’t smile

for photographs the tennis player says:

“I don’t want to be here”

When I was a camera, I didn’t smile for photographs.

Ask the code and ye shall be a locked box
with a clock inside.
Your heart may play with girls but be
as strong as boys.

They said:

“You can’t be good at ballet.”

With thighs like that.

Someone took a photograph
of my scar tissue for the performance. One man yells out.

Then another.
And another.

In a city full of men, I ask my women to build

the mountains and attack from the Forest. With thighs like that,

we can climb.

They said:

“Fish and shoot like a girl.”

I have known two guns in my life
and I know them as biceps.

I wander this forest, a key hung from my hip.
With thighs like this.

With this muscle, a compass.