How to call the difference between possession and want? If the body is bowled over, needing the articulation of others to be born then thrust into a keep, [an incubator,] hopefully to be made/whole. How to traverse the other side, survival? This place before the arc of experience or syllabics. The premature body has no way, yet, into the world. Only its immaculate impulse toward—

A poem in which her body is juncture of almost. The feeding tube, oxygen, what keeps her alive, is frameable. Outside the gestation box [its hard degrees] is all limbic—commencement of felt landscapes. Between what has happened and what will occur is the placeholder—called want—to be. Revision. “Called want—to survive.” In which organs try best to work in tandem; and the machines, affixed to the body, tell you and Others what’s what.

It is female. It is girl parts. Ready to suffer? Predilection for. Ready to try to live? I tell it—how I became what I am. Not forgiving of my self, but forgetting the irrational start. Why should I have wanted so much as to threaten my being? Refusal to recall what I was (the impossibility of this,) for three months captured in a clear box [look: [the clear box],] my trying to be. Self that I own. I own her. At least.

So my verse gives my self to you. Happens frequently: filmic/cinematic/lyric I. Multitude of vulnerable female bodies. How she and she splits and gathers herself again. Knowing her body and training it outside its smallness. A deliberate construction of angle and musculature. The intimate and severe lines. A gift of a girl. Because [exists.]

Joy is/is a syllable down the causeway yet unlit. The speakers keep saying it is so. Argue. Say: capture her and her in the midst of gesture, between desire and satisfaction—. See: stutter of woman; breasts and bone between wanting to have and having, the irrevocably rote discomfort between.

I want you to understand what this bracket feels like. : [ ] Be an active participant in the difficult narrative of body. Fit your body into the [ .]

Are you reading what I am handing you? My body hinged to the Other. Hyphen. Do you think about her kneecaps and arched spine, her navel and clavicle, her whole? Do you want to look inside?

I don’t want you to hurt, but

watch her understand what it is; watch her arc through pain to (is it?) pleasure. Something from which she doesn’t want to run (stay put in) meter of organ and sense. What now it feels like to be touched. Like   this. Again like   this. Watch her (look at me) so much a woman now, parabola and experience, muscles at ease with want and its yield. You will need so much empathy to feel her feeling it.