Day Spa

In the museum of traveling bodies,
I peel off my gender and my first name,
while you reach your practiced
palms into mine to pocket them.
Inside a mirror hall, we are the weirds
of backs, muscles foreign as wings,
Duchamp’s urinal turned holy
by these angles. Here, a silence so
whole we spread our legs to catch it.
A pair of elders guard over us like
Vestals in a temple of rain and you,
you Sister, nunlike and unending, body
loud with its iron, answer
everything I do not ask.