Untying

I want a pair of loud and sour shoulder blades

because I've been dressed in

quivering bones for long,

and people and light are exhaling

their crawling, ivy breath into my fingers.

I want to         claw the air so that it smells of ripe nails.

I want a pair of loud and sour shoulder blades

because in England I sucked on black,

my breath warm but cracked with openings.

I want to step on my seaweed blood,

and for you to, too. It would be

so nice

to have a thumping laugh

that stuffs our chests and taps at our feet.

That pair of caper eyes made me know

I want a pair of loud and sour blades.

I want to be spread so that I am

all thin inside and feel around me

so thick, padded on the edges of my body

like laying in a bed of pear-flushed grass.

I want a pair of loud and sour shoulder blades

because in Portugal my breaths sank

in handfuls down invisible throats.

I want to unzip the soil under and in me,

beneath this sliver of lettuce sky

and move like the moon as it curves into itself.

I want a pair of loud and sour shoulder blades

because in Brazil I tossed my bundled breaths

and chased after them.

Mixed, mossy insides marinating over years,

           I want a pair of loud and sour shoulder blades.

Inside you can find my sifted voices, so I need

           I want a pair of loud and sour shoulder blades

because there are shadows clotting my eyes,

turning them to sleeping sage.

because I want to           fall

into

my breaths.