Precious

Copper keeps life from my womb; aluminum  
fills my pores, silver my teeth. My blood won’t hold iron, 
so I take it daily. Food brings a sickness I can’t measure 
under my tongue, only on my waning waist. Some metal 

belongs in the body. The day a grate raised my skirt 
on the street, I noticed only one rush of air between  ore
and whore. The boy who learns to caress his face with a blade 
will grow into a man I’ll pay to slice my skin with steel. Beauty 

is no alchemy: it merely means making space for more things 
that shine. Like the ancient statues men scrapped for daggers. 
Like powder packed into bullets, their touch so intimate
it kills. Like any body in this millennium, I’ll survive 

in silicon chips after death. Until then, lead me 
somewhere precious. Guide me with ungloved hands.