THE POEMSYou fell asleep on the tiles, a translucent peacock loomed, your sex opened and let out a very blue, very high flame. You wore a split veil, that morning. Silent, nailed to her chair, the seated woman writes.She cracks. The poems fidget, slip their fingers: they seek to enter.Perched on her shoulder, the poems whisper in her ear.She captures their messages: “I love the sacred contortions you offer me.” The poems protest: “You're squeezing us too hard: careful, pet.”More than descriptors, the words behave as commands or moves in a game—and the voice of the seated woman rises to play.