I am so wonderfully-made there are days
I can hardly stand it:

can hardly stand the fit of my tongue
in the plush coffin of my mouth;

can hardly stand the extra pinch of skin
which gives my elbows room to bend;

can hardly stand how I can aim a stream
and cursive my name in snow;

can hardly stand how well my ears 
accept sound waves and usher them

through conch and canal to tympanic drum,
beats that I recognize as the rhythm of my lover’s voice;

can hardly stand the toes that curl 
tight as testimony when other parts are being pleased;

can hardly stand those folds in the larynx 
that open and close smooth as scissor legs

and cut loose the balloon of sound 
when I just can’t stand it anymore.