The Director

She holds no magic wand, but her hands

pull ribbon from the crest of my head,

they press my third eye until it trembles.

A sculptor, she hollows

my cheeks, drops my jaw,

forms two lips

into the shape of an "O"

until I breathe through

the mouth and gills of a fish.

She is a stone mason, erecting

a cathedral behind my teeth

with mortar poured from my diaphragm.

She puts words in my mouth,

trains my tongue to trip

any trap that might ensnare them.

This is the time I am wholly hers;

I can belong to no other.

Eyes, ears, heart, lungs, my voice a cello,

she draws the bow.