Refraction

There is a prism of light where disavowal takes form.

It lies spread eagle on the kitchen table with its hands cut off and feet bound with satin rope.

When they teach you of anatomy, they insist we are homo sapiens.

But I’ve discovered a beating heart behind my kneecap, in soft fleshy lobes and in the uninhabited space between moist lips.

There are decorative hands that frame the door, wielding knives that deny their purpose.

While this mound of flesh is pinned against the refrigerator and devoured to the bone.

What of etiquette - of this insistence we are evolved?

Without fingers for feeling there is only this body, and that body, and places that refract the light.