In a play about the body
She’d be the breastbone or the navel.
She’d be the one on the stairs, getting dressed
To go out and feed the birds by morning.

She’s the color that seeps through the topcoat.
One chance. One meeting. One payment.
Her pennies land in a trough of water as she sends
Love-letters to those above her: head, neck, brow.

In her nicely made bed, she asked God
To turn down the music and answer the phone.
She wanted parole from familiar faces
Pinks, roses, orange—inches of recognition between the grays.

It is the hunch of a lazy God
That makes all her photos life-size
That makes her shift the sting
From right to left, Peter to Paul, breastbone to padlock.