You’re asking
to check my pulse
by peeling back my skin
and ribs and feeling
for the beat yourself;
you’re asking for
two-in-the-morning
prayers, weeping
that God created
words that scald
and words that alight,
you’re asking for
suffocation in the city,
because I want to inhale
the whole damn thing,
you’re asking for
“I’ll miss you, baby,”
except lips mouthing only
the shape,
because I belong
to no one, care too deeply
about everyone,
you’re asking for
limbs,
you’re asking for
the teeth marks in my arm,
you’re asking for
doubled over,
head thrown back,
choked laughter,
sweat,
breath, breath
and breath like you wouldn’t
believe —
sir, you have a body, too.
How would you describe
the ways that you ache?
Jaden Goldfain is pursuing her M.A. in Writing from Point Loma Nazarene University. Her work has appeared in CERASUS Magazine, San Diego Poetry Annual, among others. She loves Jesus, her friends, and people who either don't exist or don't know she exists. Twitter (X?): @j_goldfain
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