Poetry

Elastagirl

In the spaces of my sockets (shoulder

sockets, that is, not eye)

the dust of all the things I’ve reached for

collects; the joints are loath to return

to face the withered evidence of so many bursts of hope.

No, they prefer to float away, striving for that bit of extra stretch

that will let me grasp those

teasing, nearly there, fluttering dreams.

I wouldn’t mind, but the sinew is wearing thin

and I need my arms to work properly

to embrace those bubbly moments of now.

Poetry

Sinew

The tin plate is tacked over my mouth before I can even get the words out.

This body is mine, I breathed into it,

I gave it nutrition, trained it, nurtured it

until it grew enough to have my mind accept it.

Now I’m being told it’s only fit to be measured by eyes and instruments

that clinically access its worth.

To me it is lifeblood,

to them it is meat.

Poetry

Body Chant

They’re fleshy lumps,

rounded, wobbly,

muscle showing underneath.

I’m not a doll on a stand

waiting to be turned

and scrutinized from every angle.

I have stretchmarks

mapping out every part of my life,

scars and pockmarks,

bruises, cuts, scrapes,

a papercut from last Thursday.

It carries me well,

I don’t move like a puppet

or a stiff-knee Barbie

(I always preferred rock-climbing Cindy, anyway).

I can twist, turn,

leap, smack that

sharp tongue of yours

so hard you swallow it,

read until my mind is numb.

And live.

Yes, I can certainly do that.

 

 

Poetry

Wake up call

Uncurling from my core,

I rise up, pushing against my skeleton,

fingers, toes,

stretched out like tendrils,

seeking light and enthusiasm

that eludes this dark hour.

I drink deep chugs of air,

inflating my lungs to full capacity

and exhale with force,

rinsing out the shadows of the night

that sent me clawing at my pillow and muttering

to faceless, nameless

phantoms

until words held no meaning.

Poetry

Bird watching

The birds feed from my open palms.

Sometimes they land on my head and pull

cheekily

at my hair or

search for worms in the creases of my dress.

Cars bleating along the highway

scare them away, but they always come back.

The police sirens are the worst, five or six in a row

at times.

You’d think

with so many about,

that one of them would have found me by now.

I hope they do soon

while there’s still something left of me

to find.

Poetry

Hardback

I ease into the spine,

careful not to rip or tear,

hearing that new page sound;

a spreading of toes

preparing to feel the ground

in case it tries to slip away

from me.

A deep inhale

before setting the fingers to work,

elegantly stretching from right

to left

as eyes blur left

to right.

Strength flows up my arms

congealing in my head.

The saliva on my tongue

tastes

of salt;

bittersweet meetings,

conversations left unsaid

where

there was so much to say.

I arch upwards,

clearing away the tide

that fills my lungs,

exhaling

the raw.

I step back to mountain;

the cover shuts.

My body tingles

with satisfaction.

My mind

is famished.