Stripped down to nothing
in the dirty river, my skin sheaved
like silk from corn. The things I did not say
grew malignant in my body. A cancer
of words & the sickness that spreads
from the inside out. By thirteen,
I tasted like war,
skin of wrought-iron
& chrysanthemum seeds. The snowstorm girl
who does not sing, a wind-petal body
she forgets & remembers. What light
do you keep inside your bones? Break them in half.
See what pours out.