the self takes on the limb

My legs are different. My left leg is thinner, more agile
and quicker than my right. When I move them independently
I become what they are.

When I circle my left leg I am a nimble girl,
a bohemian Berliner, sharp and wayward. I am Agata.
I am orchids, shiny thin vases, pink and black,
cocktails, shiny-kneed, snakes, elegant bridges,
birch bark, death sacrifice to the ocean, silver lockets,
rich acidic scents, hexagons, soft sneezes, mild colds,
never hot, flittering, fickle, fountains, mauled by the lion,
rinsed grapes, new metal, fine-tuning, blood pours out,
enormous pure white clouds, precise pointing, lightning,
tapping my eyes are first open to yours for split seconds
then look through you or above you and trail to the floor
in a feline death.

Then if I circle the right leg I am an old digger driver
named Bob from Gloucestershire. I am bread, oak bark,
mustard, cloudy blue sky, heavy sleep, breeze-block,
death in the lake, nutty smells, nostalgia, ravaged by a dog,
light rust, blood trickles, meaty beatings, flush, too hot,
summer squints, thunder, solid Georgian, vague gestures,
musk, smoke, crumbling cheddar, apple white knees scraping,
my eyes avoid you but sometimes they bore right
into your secret shame then pull back into my own.

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