Anne Duncan

ALCHEMY OF THE BODY

In the beginning, there was a body.
Seeking a spasm through my knotted flesh,

plucking apart by needle the muscled knot,
I practiced the ancient art of coming undone.

Now I come to myself practiced, armed
with one pin against total unfurling:

a wave uncurling to pin me against the shore
which is not beach but edge of rock misnamed.

By any other name, the rock on which
I stand still is a leg; my blood runs unseen

still in my veins. Pick up your leg and run
it onto the needle. Knit, knit–

say the hands of the YouTube video. Never knead
the fabric in the wash or it will felt.

I felt and felt. I tumble in the wash of it.
Reoriented to my window pane reflection:

magnifying glass burning a fire ant
or, antennae to the static storm.

If I have attenuated, it’s to the static. Still –
if I have been transfigured in body,

how this will figure in profile remains to be seen.
Come. Place your fingers here, at the opening.

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