Chelsea Dingman




Conclusions & Findings



                                                                        The body as accusation—:



naked in front of a door, a set of keys
thrust to the floor. Moans. Perhaps. Or just hips,


gyrating like a small string of words, lost
                        in the ear. Everything


small as a conclusion. As the complaints
of legs clamped shut. Fists clenched.


A slap. Once, I thought sex was supposed to be good
fun. Now, I can’t remember. And you, touching me


                        like a pair of hands emptying
                        a bathtub full of filthy water. You refuse to say


anything true of the windows, the light
falling at a slant, the floor that bore such a likeness


to my back. You forced me to ferry
bravery from a bed frame. Shouldn’t I want to be found


& fossilized? Titled like royalty. As momentum continues
to shift—, the hard consonant of my body, measured.


All these words we’ve had, & still, I want what any girl would
want: [verbal] stimulation. A vaccination


of your body inside mine. To own something,
                        small or otherwise, that will never yield.