Kristin Camitta Zimet
XRAYS
Stand, sit, lie down: in 37 shots, they catalog
your boneyard body, chalk up its palisade,
its scarecrow joinery, tower of pickup sticks
in which you play, tissues almost invisible:
a ghost envelope, an outbreath on the film.
Too much and too little, proofs hang in
a twilight box. Click on click, they turn you
inside out, catching and missing everything:
what the marrow of you cradles in plasma,
inmost ocean, past opacity, past possibility
of myeloma, your salt center giving, giving,
birthing and birthing love, taking the hurt
of every body’s brittle incarnation. Without
instrument I see your true your mothering
spirit surely whole and holding home.