if he says so,
the canon of my body is simple,
light in his big fist, frail as fishbone. a cold empire
medina of moroccan oranges, my fresh blood in the air.
november sunset, flat cornfields splitting my head straight in two.
most of my life i have associated with the inexplicable,
wishing to fit my tongue around it. i was just beginning to
separate these scenes from his voice.
the language for it rolls in the heavy bowl of my pelvis. it can be
i wanted everyone to hear this:
some nights, i see three salmon jumping and scraping home,
i am each fish and he is the sharp river,
calling my bleeding habitual and easy.
on my body if it says: truth. please
do not untell me.
Clair Dunlap grew up just outside Seattle, Washington, where she started writing poems at the age of six. She currently resides in Minnesota where she spends her time missing the ocean, making vegan cheese, and teaching two year olds. Her work can be found, or is forthcoming, in Whale Road Review, Up the Staircase Quarterly, the Harpoon Review, Words Dance, and more.