Tell you what
I like how you encased your organs in a box.
A tangle of arteries and watercraft.
You can examine them whenever you please
without taking off your clothes or cutting yourself open.
I like how your dresses fled the cabinets.
The puffed skirts, cakes of desire.
And the absence of hands, of heads.
The single beds, raveling.
I like when I close my eyes
and gold strands materialize like a scrub pad
in my palm where a sudsy bird might rest
for a minute before drowning.