After Divorce
Then the foot with its haughty
arch becomes hill with a girl.
Run, run, one finger along
the horizon. Then the shin
with its impossible thin skin,
bone and blood becomes
the acacia trunk, the giraffe
bending to drink. Then
the thigh with its shame
and fat glory of alone, this
beach with no name. Then
the sex, a well, well-oiled,
a cave: Cave of Cyprus,
Cave of Calabria, Cave
of Swimmers—human
figures, limbs contorted—
then the solar plexus, a fire
with a nerve and ganglia,
once scrambling the chest
with panic, now becomes
a staid doe, an American
plain. Then the shoulder
extension, the new arm
and trust like a learned
hand. At last, the neck
with its impulse and cord,
flex, and the head turning
around, turning forward,
turning back to the ear
and eye. Who have you
loved? Pick each one up,
the intelligence of stones,
every navel with its land
and animal memory, split
like a fissure through the scar.
Janine Certo is the author of four poetry books, including O Body of Bliss, winner of the Longleaf Poetry Prize (2023); and Elixir, winner of the New American Prize and Lauria/Frasca Prize (New American and Bordighera Press, 2021).