At rest in the deep grass I say yes like I always do, yes like a doll, my eyes opening and closing
when you tip me forward, tip me back, tip me forward again.
They keep mentioning the waist-high grass, eager to be in the gory field of vision, its pathos.
A weapon can look like anything. The perfect O of a mouth. Our equilateral anger.
In a day, I lost the memory of a small girl pulling her head through the opening in a white dress, for once spotless. And I lost the doll’s face, ripped by a dog’s wet teeth.
On the breakfast plate, the egg hardened into its own solid spill, its yolk eye.
It’s not the center of gravity I mean. Just salt content and all that we ever are: plump organs encased in skin.
There was a line: your collarbone, or drawn in the sand. We stopped saying what we liked about each other’s limbs when we realized we were to compete. They taught us and we followed, dutiful daughters building lines with our bodies. So late in coming to.
Now this column of grief behind my sternum unlocks. Rage speeds from stagnation to stones arced into air.
A street and a low wall, grass scratching at the sky’s face.
I make a million derivations, futures where all our queer pulse bodies unharmed, scraped from our own reconfiguring.
We do it without instruction. My body and yours, our song of coming, and how it frightens them, scrubs of mud, our lifetime of bodied movement.
The whole world might grow out of us. If we could just put ourselves back together, again or for the first time, our weighted shadows cast thick onto the reckoning fields.
The light pinned to the summer sky shutters. Tip me forward again.
Tamiko Beyer is the author of We Come Elemental, winner of the 2011 Kinereth Gensler Award from Alice James Books, and bough breaks from Meritage Press. She is a former Kundiman Fellow, a contributing editor to Drunken Boat, and the Advocacy Writer at Corporate Accountability International. She lives in Cambridge, MA.