Cut by paper I will sting for a week
Every citrus will remind me
and a small edge of skin will catch on everything
and reopen.
That I slice so easily is as disconcerting
as finding I float in water
when I thought I was solid as a glyph.

This is just the beginning.

If Frances had said this on paper
it would have flourishes
like knives made of thin sweeps of Chancery
the script by which historians squint at the dead
wondering whose high forehead
will appear first from the skulls left for the rove beetles
osprey cave bear mine
a beaded necklace under which teeth
gleam shiny as their backs split cleanly