Disjointed into heavy chunks I lie
and swear that a bed of stones
is better than the sea.
Here at least
my thigh conforms to beauty
measured by perimeter – only
and weight – not.
Standard applies to my parts,
inch by perfectly aligned inch,
among which my mind grows flat
and I observe what I cannot become:
this radiant dancer tango-tripping through teen zines –
I am punctured by air
with superbly stiff tango legs
and a shadow that keeps whispering
norms into my (intangible) ears.