sick

there’s a trick to the way
that my body bears pain,
to the way that it carries
its ancient ache—

a trick that glints hard in the light
as it twists, my Achilles spine, the
witch-twitch of my wrists.

my body,
contrivance of muscle and skin,
reliquary of illness,
convulsive itch—

bowing in on itself
in its tenderest tortures,
in its tendons and ligaments,
pulled taut like a switch.

there’s a trick to the way
that affliction embodies,
the way it’s passed down,
the way it’s imposed—

my baleful birthright,
my weird birthmark,
malevolent down to the flicks
of my ankles and toes,

to the slow tender agony
that blooms in my hips.