Kami Westhoff



There is no magic in healing. It starts with an equation
in the bone, a fusing of this to that. I will never have
nothing left to gain. If I’m born in August, if I’m born in June, 
if I’m born on a Friday night, both lion and twin, each month
worthy, collapsed. If you strip me from my fur, will you at least
wear the winter for me? Breath implodes in the dark of your chest,
the moon petrified at the top of the night. Your father’s busted
gut, your father on the floor. It is a Friday now, your father’s
bursting bag in your mother’s stubborn palms. The beginning
of real life. There are only scars. There is never you. Just roll
me into bone or birth. Dissect you until I’m all that’s left.  
We have no map to the front lines, no tip to the trenches
where sun bloats the earth and newborn shrubs cower. 
I’m not afraid to stay with you—I’ll improvise.
Skin is skin no matter what’s buried in it. 

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