I could build a golem out of all the hair
I have ever removed from my body. The neck
young locks. Round pubic bursts of eyes.
I could dye its cheeks
with indigo and lemon.
She waits outside the cafe,
licking ankles like a dog.
At dinner she stands behind me and makes a red thread necklace
as strands fall into my eggplant.
I awaken in a whelp of pain.
Golem pulling out my long eyebrow hairs
with her teeth, adding them
to the contour of her elbow.
I attempt an adult conversation about it.
I use non-accusatory language. I offer her
the harvestings of my brush, which she pushes
into a clavicle bone, and begins to cry.
Golem cries sweat. Anyone else would think she were sweating,
if not for the sound:
From her wiry gape of mouth, an entire orchestra breaks
one string each.
In the morning I find her sleeping in the sectioned sunlight on the tile.
Breath like a sharpening stone.
She has made herself a tail.
Each time I undress we play
the mirror game.
We stand naked
across from each other
She makes a shape
with her body,
and I feel for her
the shape she shows.
But the game always ends
so badly. I know
when she performs
she is thinking only
of us, and I am thinking instead
of the oldest people
in the world,
to walk up some stairs.
She wouldn’t understand this.
My poor phantom thing.
Even the greatest sculptures lack
stomach and lung — human hollowness.
Wherever she is now,
I want her to know this:
that she was conceived when I pulled
a single hair from my mouth
during an extended fellatio:
like all those glad little girls,
she was made in an act of love.
Read Alma’s interview with the author here.