For my daughter

If the body is primal, if the body is performed,
if the body is a city made of matches,
something the self burns as it retreats,


if death is a victory, if death is a cascade,
if death is the moment when the pianist rises
from the piano and the piano plays on,


if you are a theater, if you are the wandering
troupe, if you have checked, lost traveler,
into the softest of hotels, if you already existed,


in endless repetitions, like an echo which,
biopsied, grows to completion, like the flames
on a candelabra, not just born from a single


match, but wavering in the tip before it’s
struck, the whole hive singularized, a queen
subject to her ovaries, if the same horses


grazing in me are grazing in you, if the body
is a field written in hoofprints, the whole
ghostly herd passing through, then I’ll meet you


where the generations end, where the last gene
evaporates, my invisible, my twin…And
Fortinbras enters, followed closely by the wind.

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