Jane Zwart
and the leather of the cover and the crop
match exactly. They come from the same
tanned, dead thing. My skin in contrast: pale.
. . .
and the book is too slender for a Bible
and its fore edge is not unevenly discolored
as happens with libertines' diaries,
their scandalous entries soiled by rereading,
by voyeurs' accrued finger oils.
. . .
and neither the book nor the whip set aside.
I am not returned to my novel, fresh off
a horse. I am not a dominatrix on her break.
. . .
and the pages are blank, the lash untried.
It creaks when I pick it up, wielding it
uncertainly as I would a halved jump rope.
. . .
and I am trying not to betray my disquietude
at all the self-portrait implies—that in the absence
of pencils, we resort to the body's rusty ink.