The knife forgets my body. Somewhere in a field
_ _it rots in the hand
that held it. I was buried tasting
_ _the earth. I was buried
_ _with each breast cut off.
I carried them—each a bright bell, a pink bloom. A pearl
of dust, my ruined chest. Imagine—a mouth
_ _ filled with desire and I would
not open. My legs, my body,
_ _shut. How the iron hooks dug
_ _my skin and pulled me
_ _toward every window. The wooden
_ _horse, my strapped wrists. Still, bone
on bone, refusing. Then the knife. My flesh
_ _spooled in its rusted light.
My breasts held up like loaves of bread, like two
_ _cakes that stopped rising.