poem for all the shit that's been happening lately

I am sitting and revising a poem about my body:
four stanzas about four long limbs,
a belly-pouch to house a suckling kid.

Every hour the day is revising itself
shifting its lines, its light. The wind swings round
commas of cloud, erasing
whole stanzas the sun etched in the ice,
in polyglot pits and stars.

If I write about my body, will it stay put,
still its wanderings
into forbidden places?
Will its cells cease to fracture
if bound fast in meter?

All winter I end my poems with questions—
Long teats of ice hang from my roof, and drip.
If I write about this uncertain love
will it remain, cooling its heels,
suddenly corporeal? And will all I own on earth
fit between its fingers?