The Moment After

Unclothed I curl into a shape similar to a seashell: spiraling curves, careful to keep music—my breathing—inward. Closer, his artless hands reach, trying to touch me, but I can’t be felt, won’t admit consolation. Imprisoning poetry. Can’t be released. We are our words. My tongue is stroking, gently calming me. I try to talk always to me. My body is caressing the inside of itself. I always try speaking on behalf of myself. Doesn’t he know he changed us? “You’re the writer,” as if those words were a novelty, as if they touched me most, as if I didn’t know before, and haven’t already felt the pressure. He doesn’t understand. This, nebulous, female; my fetal position. Reborn in his bed. He can’t see. The child only wants to know she means something. Something special to those she looks up to, that is, whomever I’ve chosen to see.