Tag: body

Silver linings

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There’s a stretch mark
near the top of my right thigh.

She’s nothing special,
similar to the rest,
but still catches my eye.

Her jagged line shines silver
under the bathroom light,
distinct, defiant even.

She reminds me of toughness
wrapped in softness.

I trace her sometimes,
from my hip crease
down, wondering
how she will change
as I grow older.

Will she continue to draw
a path along my leg?

Will she splinter into
smaller strands,
like a bolt of lightning?

Will she become more defined,
a cavernous scar in which
I could tuck away secrets?

In the past,
I’ve wished for some of
my stretch marks to disappear,
a nod to society’s
obsession and marketing
around smooth skin.

But not her.
She feels like an old friend,
steadfast. Everlasting.

A Rhythmless Body

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What holds my body together?

Is it sinew,
binding muscle to bone
and bone to bone
so I can move in
sporadic directions
with assumed grace?

Is it glue,
globby and messy
as I pour more on
to keep my posture
upright right
and mouth from
curling down?

Is it an invisible hand,
like that of a master puppeteer,
pulling my strings
so I dance along,
a marionette without music?

Is it magic?

My legs feel heavy
and my arms stiff.
I’m moving without recognition.
Even now, I type
these words but feel disconnected.

How does my index finger know
where to go?
Why do I keep typing s instead of a?

I know when someone loses a toe,
their balance is thrown off.
I wonder if something similar happens
with a lost finger.

Perhaps I would type as if my
ghost appendage still existed,
skipping letters in easy words
as my body and brain
tried to reconnect.

We are all just neurons, right?
Neurons firing away constantly
as we try to process every sight
and sound and bodily movement
so seamlessly,
it feels like something more.

Tattoos

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I wish to cover my body with words.

I could start with every word I’ve ever uttered.

The base of my feet would carry foundational terms —
where words like mom and dad still go together.

Around my ankles would be words like quiet and shy —
hush hush, stop crying.

My lower legs, those would bear the words I learned
from my brothers and kids in elementary school.
Crabs would be there, along with suck and freak.

My knees, those would be reserved for only the words
I’d kneel to, like poetry,
understanding, compassion.

My thighs would be the playground of high school days,
my pelvis that of long, confusing summers.

My stomach and back would barely contain the world
of words introduced to me in college.

My chest would carry the heavier words,
ones associated with memories and time
and love and other things.
My heaving and laughing bringing life back
to those moments for split seconds.

My arms, those would be reserved
for every lyric of every song that ever made sense.

My neck would be stenciled with coneflowers,
butterflies, and sunshine —
a placeholder for what comes next.

My skull, my face —
those I would leave blank to not cloud
future thoughts.

Splintering

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Suddenly,
Playing games like house are
Lingering in my mind as we joke about lobotomies.
It would be simpler, you said, easier to endure the world.
No words lend comfort though, even in our laughter.
The light is gone from your eyes, and yours, and yours, and mine.
Every one of us feeling an unimaginable splintering as our bodies are
Ripped away.
I can’t move from this seat.
No way, we said.
Going back is not an option.