Her my body

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The dog licks my hand as I worry 
about the left nipple 
of the woman in the bathroom.

She is drying her hair, the woman
whose left nipple is sore. 
We looked this evening 
for diagonal cuts
or discoloration
or bite marks from small insects
that may be in our bed.

It is a good bed, a faithful bed. 
A bed that won’t be hurt 
by the consideration we gave 
to the possibility of small 
though disproportionately
strong insects in our bed.

The blow-dryer sounds like a jet 
taking off. The first time
I flew to Brussels, people began 
the journey happy but ended 
with drool on their shirts.

She is drying her hair
though she has never been to Brussels. 
Drying her hair
though she could be petting a dog. 
Drying her hair
while having red thoughts
about what the pain in her nipple means.

I would not dry my hair
in such a moment but I am bald.
The body of the woman 
has many ways to cease
being the body of the woman.

I have one way 
to be happy
and she is that way.

I would like to fly with her to Brussels. 
We would not be put off by the drool. 
This is what happens when people sleep. 
We would buy postcards of the little boy 
who saved Brussels when he peed on a fire. 
We would be romantic in public places.

For the moment
these desires can best be furthered 
by petting a dog.

I’m also working on this theory. 
That sometimes a part of the body
just hurts.
That the purpose of prayer
is to make the part of the body 
that sometimes just hurts 
the little toe or appendix.

Something vestigial or redundant. 
Something that can be jettisoned. 
I have no reason
to use the word cancer
while petting a dog.

Here is a piece of a second 
during which a jet is not flying 
nor is it on the ground.

I’m working on a theory 
that no one can die
inside that piece of a second.

If you are comforted
by this thought you are welcome 
to keep it.

© Richard Jones