I want to wake you up in the morning
and peel you off bit by bit till you’re parched and white.
I would like to see you whole, unblinking,
watch you unravel like a sanctum —
your hair teeth glistening intestines soot-black lungs,
and to pluck aside all that’s redundant or impure.
I will simmer off all your manners memories
education acquired tastes all your practised tricks,
pick you clean of your cracks, strain away each
disfiguring remnant of wear.
At the first summer rain I will plant wild jasmine
in your ribcage. I want to straddle your legs in vine
and fill your girdle with fruit, unlock
your cranium for bees ants wasps caterpillars.
And then, I want to sit at your feet — cross-legged
and rapt like a pupil
and await the flutter of wings.