I roll onto my side, lift my neck. Somewhere behind me, my back lays out its separate pains, a rustling complaint. I lie back down.

~

This daylight is not enough: I want more, the strongest I can find, the danger of bright sunshine.

I sit up, careful with myself – a memory of something, post-­surgery – but this time, instead of being cut, my body is one. My breasts meet my stomach, my stomach meets my legs.

They greet each other, as though bowing, and I see it now: the way clothes kept everything apart.

~

I manage to stand, my feet light on the ground, curled nails touching the slip-­shine of biscuit wrappers, crisp packets. I lower my head to the floor and taste them, taking out the last crumbs with my tongue.

~

I think that walls don’t matter as much any more. I hold myself on the edge of the window, savour the new morning airs. Soil: meat and burning. Grass: mint-­cool.

I open my mouth wide: I can keep it like this now, I realize. No one will tell me to close it.

~

There are so many greens, each one like a face, like a body lying down in pleasure. Neon, lime, emerald, sage and teal and jade.

There is the field, the wood. These are my places now.

~

A shout from somewhere, far into the village. A young voice, high and wanting. A certain feeling with this, a pain or a touch, but it seems that all feelings are the same.

She – I – wasted so much time trying to tell the difference.

~

The stairs now, missing the gaps where holes invite me in, my body easier, getting used to it. I go to the garden, one movement, not stamping the air down like I used to. Letting it carry me.

Every cloud is clearing, I can see. I can see so much. If I close my eyes, there is a map of everything, the whole world laid out, piece by piece. I could move myself towards it. But I will stay. Look down at myself. This is enough.

~

The way it feels to grow again: a shooting across the heart, like a rock falling from space, dissolving between my bones.

I could make a study of myself, show it to everyone. Say who was right and who was wrong. Which writer-­man said I would be repulsive, dressed in rags – I am dressed in nothing! – or seated on a throne.

~

It seems to be the afternoon: the sun is lower again and I believe this means afternoon. Bells somewhere nearby, chiming.

I lie across the stubble grass of the field, feeling the burn of some distant planet turn my skin red and hard. Then I realize: I could be seen. From a plane or a drone or another secret way.

I move, merge with the shadows, the undergrowth, the world a warm body beneath me.

~