In our hava nagila,
my chair tilted into fire—
you savored my burnt hair,
the way I look
compelled. What didn’t I give
that you asked? That’s

a rhetorical question.
I presented the dowry
of nerves, muscles, blood,
a hope chest of napkins
no longer white.

The chrysanthemum
is more than chlorophyll and cellulose.
But a woman on the rack,
a woman in love,
is a secretless animal.

*

Jasmine Bailey is the author of two poetry collections from Carnegie Mellon University Press: Alexandria (2014),