Luigi Russolo, "Ritratto di Lina Zaquini" (1945)

the ritual, the alcohol swab over

the top of the vial, alcohol

swab in the ever-growing

concentric circles on the side

of my stomach, air filling syringe and

exhale into the gel, inhaling

then its pollen and know

this is one certain act of love

i do for myself, for us, but

mostly for me. this chore,

to know i will have to treat myself

like this for the rest of my life, every week,

so let me take a seed, a pomegranate

pilgrimage to the small bump beneath

my skin, to love for a moment the space between

muscle and hypodermis,

the sun red drop mixed with oil on the surface

to make me more divine milliliter by

milliliter, to make an alt_r of this body

and make what’s left behind a relic.

pray with me, once-body. past face

old skin. form and former,

i would travel anywhere

with you, tell you any story

you’d like to hear, as long

as we’re out/here, wandering

this ever-wild sedge and cornhusk

pile below the low branches as

Saints of the Earth, the Holy Land

without possession, without

forgiveness without and within

and you know the rest

will come soon enough, the sleep

of tiny pink apples June dropping

from the tree to make room.

to save its strength. to make something

Mica Yarrow Woods. Columbia Poetry Review, no.32. Chicago: Columbia College, Spring 2019.