The Body Poem

The Body Poem

The Body Poem is there when I wake up. It is
hesitant in its movements, as the light strikes
in pieces through the blinds. Its hands try
to rub away sleep from eyes, but they can’t.
The Body Poem cannot erase anything from itself.

The Body Poem does not shower, but it does pee
in the shower. In the bathroom mirror The Body Poem watches
as I brush my teeth, as I wash and moisturize my skin
to keep it from dying too fast, too painfully. The Body Poem
knows it will never really die. It sits on the toilet
and thinks that maybe it won’t get up. It shits.

The Body Poem doesn’t eat breakfast—it doesn’t break
a fast, that is. The Body Poem never stops eating,
consuming, growing. The Body Poem moves around me
as we prepare our meals, reminding me of its presence
with precisely awkward taps and brief caresses.
The Body Poem is misshapen and ungainly, and capable
of surprising feats of grace.

The Body Poem picks its clothes from other people’s laundry.
Its choices are always tight, or loose, sheer, or quilted,
zebra-striped or brightly colored, whatever it takes
to call attention, to be the center of attention
like the eye of a hurricane. The Body Poem mistakes disgust
for admiration, or rather it sublimates disgust into admiration.
The body poem never wears the same thing twice.

I drive The Body Poem to work with the windows down
to cope with the smell. It puts on the radio and dances in its seat
to any beat it finds. It sings along whether it knows the song or not,
and sometimes hits the right note. It flashes passing cyclists,
attempting to unseat them with the sight of itself. To The Body Poem
the commute is a safari through other people’s lives, and it is free
to taunt them as it pleases, for it does not believe they are wild.

The Body Poem is a disruption in the workplace,
if a well-meaning one. It leads its coworkers in
impromptu yoga sessions, it whistles “Whistle While You Work”
while it works (and while it doesn’t), it hoists even the lightest boxes
with the grunting and flexing of a champion weightlifter. It brings in trays
of cookies and muffins and anything else guaranteed to make a mess.
Management does not approve, but Body Poems are a protected class.

Every night is Friday night for The Body Poem,
but also every night is all of Saturday. The Body Poem
goes to bars in torn sweatpants and a stained t-shirt,
reads a novel and does shots for each chapter it finishes.
Eventually bored, The Body Poem dances with anyone who asks,
as long as they’re not tall enough to block the TV.

The Body Poem gets home late, wakes me up as it slides,
naked, into bed. In the dark, its warm flesh against mine,
I am not what I think of as myself, and in its embrace
I become a Body Poem too. Afterward, in guilt-tinged bliss,
I apologize to The Body Poem, say I understand now.
The Body Poem forgives me, knowing that I’ll forget,
and in the morning I will no longer see myself
for what I truly am.