I have been a mind and ability; I have been plans and focus and fiery hopeful belief. But when you speak, keys fall through your voice, and go unlocking me, freeing a body that erupts beneath my eyes and lips. My long lost body, beautiful and imperfect, silken-haired and scarred—a wild thing full of magnets, now pulled toward you and all the keys falling through your voice.
It’s magic, to grow legs and feet and breasts and hands, and yet, my body confuses time and disrupts my eagle-eye and dream strategies, by leaning forward, by wanting and ringing, ringing like that tinkling pile of keys left on the floor after your oblivious magic tricks. And I say nothing, go back to my long-term goals, but I don’t fit on the chair anymore; my legs kick, my ass bumps the cushion off, and I’m a wild animal in the house.
My missing half of me returned, now I don't fit. Shoved from my logic dreams, in a body, I’m lonely. Yet how can I not be grateful for the amazing trick and replay how all you did was talk, and here I unlocked and went unfurling like I’ve been a jack-in-the-box all along.
So now I’m a tangle of hips and arms and belly, wrapped 'round with one-eyed plans, but for those minutes when you told a story, I remembered how to be complete. Thanks for the unlocking and zap and the beautiful electricity powering you, even if now all my hands get in their own way. Still, the trick was glorious, and terrible and more real than I’d remembered.
Bless your voice’s keys, and now let me tend to this weird, blazing day.