I am not beautiful the way some

I am not beautiful the way some
are beautiful:
Look—
those bodies arrayed across your bed like
sculpture, like
song, like
poetry, limbs
enjambed, expressions
unforced and effortlessly true, metaphors
in the slight curl of each finger, bodies
knowing intuitively just how to take up space
under the gaze of the observer
line after line.

My body
does not know what to do
with itself in empty space, does not know
how to arrange the fluid yeses and the
angled nos: I never learned how to play
in a vacuum—

put a body against my body, then
I’ll know what to do with these hands.