Our bodies are hangers
for our quirks,
a place to harbour our personalities
so they don’t get torn or damaged from being trampled on.
Our bodies are made of stone, of sponge,
wire, mesh, brick.
Malleable or solid,
they carry us
safe, guarded. Home.
Tag: health
Toxic
My lungs hunt for fresh air,
snatching in every touch of breeze they can.
But recently the freshness can’t be found.
The air is choking. Curling smoke and fumes
culminate into balls and whack themselves
into my system.
I can feel it, but no one else seems to notice.
The vapour from their own breath
comes out black.
Symptoms
The catch in my throat
cannot decide if it’s there because I have hayfever
or because I have to wave you goodbye for now.
Same with the ache in my head
and the water at my eyes.
In one case, I’m not myself for a while.
In the other, I’m only functioning at half capacity.
The remaining half…
well, that followed you.
Bare room
Now the words come tumbling out; a sharp exhale before you jump into a mercury plunge pool. After months of them calcifying inside, holding on to them like a babe clings to its mother, suddenly emptiness is all that offers to take their place.
Waterfalls
The pick strikes the ice and shatters the fragments
out into the air. Down they go, hearty lumps,
past my feet as I cling to the side.
I stretch up, pick ready, and strike again.
My chest hurts – I’m too eager, I know.
Fragments fly.
A routine: pick strike, ice diamonds
pick strike, ice diamonds.
Just frozen water playing rain.
So why am I bleeding?
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.
Mind Games
When you think of a brain –
all those fleshy, pinkish
folds, a bit like the goo
from Ghost Busters 2 –
do you ever see the star map inside?
All those electric connections
zig-zagging their way
across the galaxy
(no, not the chocolate bar,
tempting as it is).
Can you feel each little jump
from synapse to synapse,
like Mario in invincible mode?
I don’t all the time. But
sometimes I do, and I wonder
if that star map is the same as mine,
or different.
Pi inches of parchment
Unfurling the scroll, it seems
it will never end,
a list upon a list that is
stuck in my hands
for an eternity I don’t want to face.
Ticked boxes, completed tasks,
I’m winning,
then the scroll is reversed
and instead I see
how much I’m losing.
Losing, or lost? That’s
the question now.
All I need is a chance.
Just one,
and then I’ll feel like me again.
Cardiac Arrest
The flat edge hits my nose.
Sharp. Unwanted.
Thump.
‘An evening of heart’,
the print on my face reads.
Thump.
I’m flung waist-deep into the quadrants –
which door will I choose?
Thump.
Careful! Don’t flood them,
they might burst and leak
Thump.
red wine on the prize rug.
Sweet-talk them. Coax out
Thump.
the opaque scent of mind.
Keep reaching for the string.
Thump.
Really, it’s an advert
for a radio station’s new show.
Thump.
Oh, I see.
What happens next?
Thump.
Thump thump thump.
Thump thump.
Thump.
Treeshallow Musings 