Performance Review Anxiety 

Inside the circle, a first glow. Inside the halo, faint
rasps of tinnitus. Inside the ear, a drumroll. Then
a tsk-tsk. Along came the engagement ring, wrapping
the insouciance of your finger that only minutes ago
was running through my hair. Further inside, our bodies
quivered bare. Yours like a star. Mine like a bear
with very little fur. Once you parted the fur, a coat
of cells. Inside each cell, a flag. Inside the flag,
a jersey. The lead sponsor on the front. Number
on the back. Between them, the thin slip of air
that a naked body must displace to hug fabric.
Inside the hug, the warmth of bodies overpowering
a hint of jealousy. Inside sin, an oasis of pleasure rimmed
by ache. Inside the gold-rimmed gums, pastures
of bile-soaked alphabet. To listen to those brilliant
beats of hard language, a stethoscope hanging on my
father’s chest. Inside an adjacent chest, my mother’s
trepidation on the possibility of me harming
myself. Cold razor cuts on the dough
of my cheek. Applying Vaseline to shaving
nicks. Inside the fading scar, the pout print
of a teary kiss. If you cried alone, you should know—
so did I. If you want some heat, light
this candle on my back. Inside the wax melts
hesitation. Let wax pool round the raised film
of a mole, the spot beneath which hums my reticent
spine. Inside the vertebral tower, a wetbag lung hollowing itself
into a forest raged by smoke. Inside the ashen leaves, wild sugar
confectioning your tongue, then dribbling its way onto mine. Inside
the contagion, a supersonic connection. Inside the mist of swapped
breath, a zeroing organism devoid of doubts. The zero of the equator’s
plane sliding under your feet to expose latitude. Inside the dim degrees
of a convivial haze, annotations arranged to form a circle of human
feet. Was this necklace drawn on page number 97? Inside that shimmering
report, a forecast of escalating digits. Inside the digital lobe of my brainstem,
the anatomy of a firefly. Something in my head blinks on receiving your
messages and so I know you’re seated on some couch, joystick in hand,
roughing buttons swift and hard from the contractions of muscle
memory. I hope the food is nice there, the plastics decomposable
and the ozone impenetrable. Where I stand now, is it outside
for you? How is the weather there—is it like a sky
or an ambient void? Am I dying here? I’m dying
to get there. I’m dying to know if I did ok inside.