by Jennifer Stockdale

one-piece, thank you. Tankini
launches synaptic torpedo tissue too

fast & this is a family
vacation, please. Mom said

A new top: the bikini
split is for when it’s just me &

dad. But age can’t split
with imagination & who doesn’t want

a little privacy? (I’ve been practicing
my dead man’s float: my private

parade capacity borne of planking
hinged on a joint & heavy

limb at discrete intervals in-between
the coffee table & the wall—

& lapping, the plica in
my knee making movement as

hard & shaming as a bellybutton
or hernia, the mesh-embossed little trap-door.) In this,

the year of the root canal & bodies
dropping from the sky,

I’ll keep my metonymic
guts under wraps,

close to the vest,
all together now:

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