I embroider the days of the lunar
            calendar on handkerchiefs to track
                        my menstrual omissions. The only way

            to catch a stray breath is by exhaling
on glass & releasing from its cage
            the river that lives amongst pulsing

                        cilia. I place a TV, the size of my palm,
            between my legs & by its glare see
a moonless night. I laugh at the thought

            of burglary, stitch a cigar under
                         an apple tree on my belly, fall
            asleep to the soft sound of thread

tugging on skin, and wish my grandmother
            could show me how to wash my feet
                        with a bucket of sand & a kettle

            of hot water. I work to make
my body a comfort. My body:
            the table where strangers sit to be served

                        as king in a court of cross-stitched
            felons. Each felon with a needle’s prick
assassins down the highway of my legs.

                        An eyelash is pressed taut against fabric
            & I know my body is a sutured thing,
that by my hand can be torn & with a needle stitched again.