The body spliced by parentheses
Your limbs, slivers
sliced by the sharp arch of that question
the Other disintegrates against the tyranny of language
People like fetuses enclosed in the womb of syntax
we are all premature
The period pulls you into mourning
decapitation by punctuation
a miscarriage takes place
between those lines.
You shove me between parentheses
or add a comma separating now from then,
Future selves convene and fold the other into boxes
rejoicing in proper nouns
slinging quotation marks like bullets
February is being good to me.
C., thank you. You have no idea how much I needed that.
What the fuck am I doing.
I am pleased and happy.