My Own Wood

My body is an
Instrument now, the
Cuts they made, the
Metal rods prised and
Drilled have
Left their marks on my
Hips - my  body is an
Instrument now, with the
Wind holes winding like
Tender curls of ivy
On my white skin -
Through them I breathe
And sing - these days
I am strung and
Bowed, my own wood
Lipped and loving.

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