Stanza Is the Bone

A stanza is the bone.

Nothing—
not even a life—
can be carried
all at once.

Everything else
is me
trying not to come apart
in public.

My hand around my ankle

like I am keeping

some part of me

from leaving.

My body
wrapped in denim.

My whole life
pretending
this is just a way
to sit.

I feel
so temporary.

The bracelet.

The shoe.

The watercolor flowers
beneath my skin.

I needed evidence

that I was here.

That I could drown
inside myself

and still come up
breathing.