Erin Smith
Or

in maps
of the body
this is the hand, this is the eye
cartography
is     memory
    a small, slick kayak
the history of the sea

*

the wet blossom
arch self
    works through
    the hard
    and even distance
the sound of morning
    like women
    slender
    in their secrets

*

you
    my meal
    my red summer tongue
come
    build me a white space
                   a song that lapses
here
    like this skin

                like this–