the same. For once, it is not about the body.

I listened as my friend’s urge to kill herself grew

clamorous as a field of bells. She stank of it.

Her voice reeked, streaked with ringing—and

as if she were wreathed in baby’s breath,

cloaked in a robe of dianthus, as if

she’d been washed by a river stripped

of silt and mud, I drew her close, inhaled

her musk, and brought her brow to mine.

I mean to say, her blood was mine.

Etymology of a Mood

Sometimes I feel like a goddess

with many hands … except human.

One hand is amber-gloved, dripping

with honey, and two constantly shoo

the flies. Two hands play “Miss

Mary Mack” while two pairs clap

to “Rockin’ Robin.” In my hand

a dictionary, in my hand the ash

of want, in my hand a tea cup

whose emptying bears my face,

in my hands a firefly, a sprig

of rosemary between thumb

and forefinger, in my hand

a pinwheel resembling the dahlias

in my hand. What is the word

for this feeling? What is the root

of that word? Tell me

what to call a twin who survives

the other—not widow, not

orphan—and why light

defines a shadow. Tell me what year

the sun will fail or when the word moons

began to convey the passage

of time. Sometimes I fall asleep

petting my hair with six hands.

By now, all the hairs in this house

are mine. At night I hear

the spider’s velvet legs crossing

the web that, if disturbed,

will stick to the fingers of one

of my hands. My right hand

holds a bell the left hand rings.

The last of my hands: I am wringing.

Poem After an Iteration of a Painting by Lynette Yiadom-Boakye, Destroyed by the Artist Herself

A few times a week, Yiadom-Boakye

painstakingly cuts oil paintings she believes

aren’t up to snuff. Instead of re-priming

the canvas, she reduces it to 2 X 2 ½ meter

pieces. She begins again. This isn’t

an ars poetica. Once, I made love in daylight.

It was a Saturday or Sunday in November

or July. My lover and I stumbled toward

the bedroom, turning our mouths

and our stalk-like waists. I don’t remember

if I undressed myself. The edge of the bed felt

precipitous. I’ve forgotten almost everything

about that day except the competing limbs

of kissing, walking, fucking—how confused

my feet were until, at last, they did not

touch the fl or. It was my fault, I wanted so

little. This is not a love poem. Not a catalogue

of attempts. Yiadom-Boakye doesn’t set her figures

in time or place. They are composites of photographs,

magazine cut-outs, and the occasional life drawing.

She doesn’t call them portraits. When she scissors

her failures into unmendable bits, she aims

to deter scavengers and thieves.

In the room where I write this, my hands