Brief History of the World

Neck density, cord after cord overwrought. My head hangs:
a milky tedium; a globe-shaped bang in the bed.

Before this, there were smaller moments of explosion. Silent throes
of each hair pushing up again through each follicle of the legs.

I recall the sifting of skin cells through the room
or lifting my hand to rearrange, in search of that one

old piece of coveted self, which I must confess has abandoned
us all and jumped ship, —but these are bombshells sucking

bright bombs, and between your teeth dynamite
sparks the whitest of your bones, careful, careful—

or was it only in moments of agitation that explosives
gained their chamomile quality? A honeyed tongue

under raw and red, breast rose-swabbed above the bruise.
Who knows the way to light that fuse, to hold up a match

in uncertain light? Candles, candles, candles, candles.
Forgetting definition, flame becomes itself, and burns.