Poems - Issue 6
Our Bodies Conjugated in the Possessive Tense
We fashion tables from our scattered parts, from limbs lost to wars,
from fat stripped from bones
in our crusade against aging.
No one yearns to grow old, but we can’t grow young,
our stray hairs finding no refuge upon our increasingly bald pates.
We shape our chairs
from breaths forged in frigid air,
from an accumulation of crystals cupped in our trembling palms.
We sculpt, sand, & polish them into a mass of exhalations,
our wishes haphazardly assembled
& carefully stitched together
with the sloughed-off fears from what lurked on our underbellies.
We store our former selves in tattered photo albums,
in plastic storage bins,
build an expanding metropolis
with all our false starts, with far-fetched goals we couldn’t attain
while we mouthed the bitter words hollered at our dying parents
as they lay on hospital beds
3,000 miles away