Acrotomophilia

Acrotomophilia

I sewed closed
the arms of his sweaters,
cooked oatmeal by the barrel.
We were there because he
smelled like pine needles, the sap
of felled trees, when
I slept in the space of where his arms were
it was of birds in a pine forest,
needle browned swamp,
dry feathers and
nude birds, bumped breasts lolling
over ribcages, wingless,
in the pine needles
and feathers mixed.

With no legs
the buttocks curved like a knucklebone,
when we lay together my thighs
fit into the slots under his ribs.
When I held the stumped end bone I was
his forearm and my thoughts
his fingers and wingtips.

The empty space I fell in
could never fully capture. It was
a wingless bird cage, with no legs
he couldn't run from me, with no wings
in the pine needles
we were flightless, with no thoughts,
featherless
fearless
less there.