--I’VE BEEN MEANING TO ASK YOU IF I’M DOING ALL RIGHT

Speaking of the Body

We could speak of the body,

write our worries on it in indelible ink.

You could tell me something real for once,

or not, just drag a blade

across my sweat-slickened spine,

carve courage into the empty sockets,

stuff the pits with rosary beads

or bruised promises.

You should know this bag of

skin is all I have.

Every scar is an island I was marooned on,

the whorls cacti I dined on in the driest of times.

The veins you see seeking relief,

attempting a brazen mutiny,

are merely made of straw.

Beneath them, the meat has shriveled,

turned into sand and ash.

So, yes, we could talk of the body or,

better yet, leave it hanging

on the coatrack with

all the other useless rags.