THE BODY AS ITS OWN HOSTAGE
#2 of Poetry
Some biographical free verse
My nerves the orchestra none hear.
Freeways of fire make me try to gnaw
hands to paste. The kitchen burn that melts
and cooks my skin till juice beads
along my arm is nothing. Skin sizzles,
I don't feel it. I feel only talons
that rake my ribs, the butterflies
beating between my shoulder blades,
the bouquet of teeth blossoming
beneath my hips. My body its killer
and hostage, but the doctor asks:
"Are you sure it's not stress? Have
you tried meditation?" Have you tried
tugging on your brainstem like a weed?
You must grab it at the base, to ensure
the roots come with. I long to rip free
what slithers through the earth of my body.
When young, I dreamed of plants
that grow inside your skin. They'd sprout
shining lye hairs on my arms,
and I'd pick and pull it up, out and out,
until wet, bloody fibers of porcelain
were wrapped in my hand, tugging
on a snagged knot. Ripping it free
like a barbed arrow, one bloody bulbous root
leaving weeping red craters across me,
until I simply submitted to carrying
these growths. Now I wonder
if my body whispered warnings
of what grew till hatching. Now hatching
like botflies that chew constellations in me.