The torso facing east, the head nearly west,
as if she couldn’t take in the sight of her
own skin and its failings, its parts spilling
onto other parts. She thought:
Nothing for once.
Too tired for fantasy.
If a body can be seen as itself and loved,
it’s a wonderful thing. If the thing-ness
of the body is all, we’re doomed and 
broke apart: I’m offering you my breasts,
inches below the fuselage of my heart,
for whatever a short life can become.

Listen to a reading of the poem.