ulcerative colitis

My body has become a felony—

steaming between red summers,

robbed of marrow, bones stew 

with the zest grated from papery

eyelids. The rind of my skin 

stumbles into cobblestones.

We sometimes forget how to travel

through our bodies—the maps, soaked

by rain of feverish fingertips, ink

bleeding into fibers. Wisps of dark

wafting into white the way fresh

blood oozes into the porcelain bowl,

pulp waltzing on water. Body 

has folded itself inside out—

I’ve become a ewer, leaking insides

out like bathwater, ebbing and flowing

between lips. But as a lonely slug

searches for a new shell, I instead

seek an urn, one that can shield

the scent of rotting flesh.

My intestines coil like rope—

hitches knotted by chipped nails

of the sailor without permission

from the captain. I crave the wheel,

yearn to sail my own body, even

if I will never reel in the waves 

lapping on the shores of my guts—

salty breath stinging open wounds