Iron (2018)
By Elizabeth Acevado
And although I am a poet, I am not the bullet; I will not heat-search the soft points.
I am not the coroner who will graze her hand over naked knees. Who will swish her fingers
in the mouth. Who will flip the body over, her eye a hook fishing for government-issued lead.
I am not the sidewalk, which is unsurprised as another cheek scrapes harsh against it.
Although I too enjoy soft palms on me;
enjoy when he rests on my body with a hard breath; I have clasped this man inside me and released him again and again, listening to him die thousands of little deaths.
What is a good metaphor for a woman who loves in a time like this?
I am no scalpel or high thread count sheet. Not a gavel, or hand-painted teacup. I am neither nor romanced by the streetlamp nor candlelight; my hands are not an iron, but look, they’re hot, look how I place them in love on his skin and am still able to unwrinkle his spine.