It’s like this:

new skin packed like sardines
in fleshy white pockets surrounding

her bellybutton.
She puts herself inside mouths that could use

a little extra salt.
If you find this strange,

I don’t suggest keeping the light on,
or touching her during sex.

There are other ways you can get to know
the heavy parts of her. Feel her voice

in the dark, raising the pressure
in your ears until they pop

with high altitudes.
Allow her head on your chest until you feel weight

shovel into you, and do not stop her,
for this is a construction site, not an abandoned building.

In the morning,
her body will come to you in obtuse angles:

back flat, feet propped on top of your knees
and you wish you had paid more attention

in geometry, to angles,
to perpendicularity, to postulates,

to how one line will lead to another.
Before long, she will close herself—

folding into an acute triangle:
knees to chest, head dropping like a flower bud

after the first frost.
She tells you that she never liked sardines-

the salinity, the beady eyes, the way they slide
down her throat.

The way fish tails beat between ribs,
the way scales coat her like second skin

wanting to be shed. Pulling away
with teeth, holding with lips,

you begin to eat them away for her,
one-by-one.