Cora Schipa

­­­ 

­­ 

The Red Underwear

  ­­

  ­

I find them stuffed under my pillow,

a fist of unfurled hibiscus.

We all leave ourselves

behind, want

to be discovered. I believe

someone will love me

if I stick around long enough. 

As a child, I slept on class notes

hoping they might mold the walls

of my dreams. Paper made heavy

by its pigment. Stained white

sheets, ink-taste.

I’ve memorized you,

your worn lace I slip my legs through,

middle rusted with old blood, imagine

your morning fingers plucking them from 

the laundry—cotton, cherry, static crackle—

the days collapsed at your feet.

All those resurrections. 

I wait in the kitchen, something dead in my mouth.

The wine glass and its rim, palimpsest of lipstick

I place on my tongue. Picture: a bee 

on my thigh. Its weight. Its sting. Its little death. 

How we animate each other like puppets, 

ribs surging. The smashed seams of our bodies,

those places we connect. Head pulled back.

The wound of it all. My red-laced knuckles, your flush.

Fingers digging for life like dogs in the dirt.

 ­

 ­

 ­