"Naked Mile"
We cracked out of our clothes, left our shells behind;
someone high fived my scapula with blue
and I labeled Chris’s spine with his name.
Armored in paint and the pack mentality and
not much else,
I was surprised to realize that
without fashion to segment us,
without being split into distinct articles of clothing,
I saw everyone as whole,
and when it came time to run
it was something my whole body was doing.
It felt like being new,
before you know what bravery is,
before such a word
becomes necessary.
Showing posts with label body politics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label body politics. Show all posts
Monday, 18 April 2011
Thursday, 14 April 2011
April 13
“indicators of ecosystem health”
My skin is canary song.
It is mayfly eggs downstream.
It is the usnea lichen on my limbs striking deals with nitrogen.
Even though it does not speak in a language I can read
it signals trouble.
When in November it spelled something’s wrong
I turned to professionals with letters
like reading glasses perched on the ends of their names:
MD, PC, PhD.
Their test results said:
More tests. More tests said four different things.
I did not want a diagnosis and
something else to swallow.
I wanted to find out what my mine is made of,
the exact location of the leak upstream,
why lichen stopped doing business in the forest.
But all the doctors could give me was a generic antibiotic,
an inflammation classification, a shrug,
and a heavy bill.
I am beginning to realize that a lifetime
of reading textbooks for med school
is not the same thing as understanding
the semantics of skin,
and even if I don’t know all the words
my body writes in a rash font across my arms,
I can listen when it sings,
and maybe,
if I start putting faith instead of pills in my body,
it will not only recover;
it will thrive.
My skin is canary song.
It is mayfly eggs downstream.
It is the usnea lichen on my limbs striking deals with nitrogen.
Even though it does not speak in a language I can read
it signals trouble.
When in November it spelled something’s wrong
I turned to professionals with letters
like reading glasses perched on the ends of their names:
MD, PC, PhD.
Their test results said:
More tests. More tests said four different things.
I did not want a diagnosis and
something else to swallow.
I wanted to find out what my mine is made of,
the exact location of the leak upstream,
why lichen stopped doing business in the forest.
But all the doctors could give me was a generic antibiotic,
an inflammation classification, a shrug,
and a heavy bill.
I am beginning to realize that a lifetime
of reading textbooks for med school
is not the same thing as understanding
the semantics of skin,
and even if I don’t know all the words
my body writes in a rash font across my arms,
I can listen when it sings,
and maybe,
if I start putting faith instead of pills in my body,
it will not only recover;
it will thrive.
Sunday, 10 April 2011
April 9 (poem 9)
“dermatologist”
she scrolled over every page of my body without comment
and I thought
when did she start seeing skin as
a prescription note
instead of art?
she scrolled over every page of my body without comment
and I thought
when did she start seeing skin as
a prescription note
instead of art?
Thursday, 7 April 2011
April 6
“advice to my middle school self”
You will not always feel like an alien.
At some point you will also stop telling people
you are trying to contact the mothership
by twisting your earrings around on the dashboard of your ears.
When you wish your boobs rivaled Angela’s
Stop it.
When they bloom brighter than hers, do note berate yourself.
It is not your fault.
When Mr. Filer tells you
you can’t wear the purse you pack with embarrassment
– a toothbrush, pads, and braces rubber bands –
to his algebra class,
do not cry. Do not unzip anything.
When Mr. Boyd tells you girls are only good for cartwheels and somersaults,
research Title IX.
Even though you will never win a single wrestling match on the PE mats,
you will triumph.
When Kim asks you at Cassie’s slumber party if you are a prude,
do not ask what this means.
Pretend to be asleep.
While the other girls list boys
they would like to kiss,
always choose Dare.
Do not tell them how your insides sparked
every time Erika unfurled her lips in science class the day
you learned about heat convection.
Even though you will invoke his name like salvation,
the girls do not know that you do not actually know Kevin.
You do not need to carry a concealed camera on the last day of school
to convince them that you like him.
That’s called overcompensating, and it’s creepy.
When Logan calls you a know-it-all, do not turn cherry-cheeked.
Do not give him the answers to the Spanish homework.
When Jens tells you he has a secret and the first letter is G,
the next two letters are A and Y.
When you finally figure this out,
do not then shout “You’re gay?! COOL!” when the hallway
is cluttered with students.
But do hug him.
When Loraina asks you if you’re a Christian,
do not say yes, because then she will ask you what denomination you are
and there is no denomination that celebrates
Kwanzaa, Yom Kippur, Dia de los Muertos, and Solstice.
Invent your own gods. Give them Latin names.
Listen when she tells you about heaven,
but object when she tells you Jens’ boyloving heart is captained by demons.
She will not do it again.
When your brother makes you mad,
do not kick him in the balls. He will punch you back.
Steal one piece of his Halloween candy instead.
Stop wearing that goddamn jingle bell on your shoe.
And stop telling people it’s there so you don’t lose yourself.
Losing yourself and finding yourself are pretty much the same thing
and neither require constant noise.
When Cam walks around shirtless to let the
henna paste dragon dig its two-week-long claws into the cave wall of her back,
do not stare.
When at 3am she falls asleep in the crevice between your chest and your arms,
remember to breathe.
When you are absolutely totally one hundred percent sure everyone else is asleep
whisper a kiss into her hair; she will not wake up
but everything inside of you will suddenly sunrise, and even though
you know that the universe is expanding at the rate of 71 kilometers per second per Megaparsec
this will be the first time
your heart understands exactly what the universe is going through.
You will not always feel like an alien.
At some point you will also stop telling people
you are trying to contact the mothership
by twisting your earrings around on the dashboard of your ears.
When you wish your boobs rivaled Angela’s
Stop it.
When they bloom brighter than hers, do note berate yourself.
It is not your fault.
When Mr. Filer tells you
you can’t wear the purse you pack with embarrassment
– a toothbrush, pads, and braces rubber bands –
to his algebra class,
do not cry. Do not unzip anything.
When Mr. Boyd tells you girls are only good for cartwheels and somersaults,
research Title IX.
Even though you will never win a single wrestling match on the PE mats,
you will triumph.
When Kim asks you at Cassie’s slumber party if you are a prude,
do not ask what this means.
Pretend to be asleep.
While the other girls list boys
they would like to kiss,
always choose Dare.
Do not tell them how your insides sparked
every time Erika unfurled her lips in science class the day
you learned about heat convection.
Even though you will invoke his name like salvation,
the girls do not know that you do not actually know Kevin.
You do not need to carry a concealed camera on the last day of school
to convince them that you like him.
That’s called overcompensating, and it’s creepy.
When Logan calls you a know-it-all, do not turn cherry-cheeked.
Do not give him the answers to the Spanish homework.
When Jens tells you he has a secret and the first letter is G,
the next two letters are A and Y.
When you finally figure this out,
do not then shout “You’re gay?! COOL!” when the hallway
is cluttered with students.
But do hug him.
When Loraina asks you if you’re a Christian,
do not say yes, because then she will ask you what denomination you are
and there is no denomination that celebrates
Kwanzaa, Yom Kippur, Dia de los Muertos, and Solstice.
Invent your own gods. Give them Latin names.
Listen when she tells you about heaven,
but object when she tells you Jens’ boyloving heart is captained by demons.
She will not do it again.
When your brother makes you mad,
do not kick him in the balls. He will punch you back.
Steal one piece of his Halloween candy instead.
Stop wearing that goddamn jingle bell on your shoe.
And stop telling people it’s there so you don’t lose yourself.
Losing yourself and finding yourself are pretty much the same thing
and neither require constant noise.
When Cam walks around shirtless to let the
henna paste dragon dig its two-week-long claws into the cave wall of her back,
do not stare.
When at 3am she falls asleep in the crevice between your chest and your arms,
remember to breathe.
When you are absolutely totally one hundred percent sure everyone else is asleep
whisper a kiss into her hair; she will not wake up
but everything inside of you will suddenly sunrise, and even though
you know that the universe is expanding at the rate of 71 kilometers per second per Megaparsec
this will be the first time
your heart understands exactly what the universe is going through.
Friday, 1 April 2011
April 1
"love letter to my body"
trigger warning: body issues, eating disorder
Dear body,
I have not always been the most faithful.
I have loved the Indianas of other women’s bellies
and the Appalachians of their ilia.
I have imagined their tiny clementine breasts in place
of your heirloom melons. I have
accused your hands of the crime of
being too wise –
I’m sorry for that.
I have treated you less like a temple
and more like a temptation
to call my skin sin.
From my father I received my nose
hairs,
doll-size ears,
and knees on rusty hinges;
from my mother,
feet that like to run,
myopia,
and the trichotillomania that compels me to
pothole my face
into a road so ragged it is difficult to
reach the destination of my eyes
without getting stuck along the way.
Dear body,
do you remember when Alex’s mom
used to call me Skinny Minnie and
you stood tall as birthday balloons
like you had accomplished something
simply by existing?
Remember when, three years later,
Mom said “chubby”
and you deflated like you had failed?
I know we have a grab bag history:
our handshakes with anorexia
(never a closer relationship) giving way to
our barnacle-knuckled grip
on body positivity.
I learned how to read a scale before
I learned how to take my own
pulse.
I have loved you loudly,
but sometimes those who love their
bodies loudest still believe they would
love their bodies louder if their bellies grew
perpendicular to gravity.
Dear body,
you have transformed paper into art,
bicycles into vehicles,
and rum into kisses and
impossible amounts of urine –
and people say you’re not magic?
you are not a temple –
you are the prayers that fill it.
Dear body,
I think you should know that
I did not learn to love the Venus curve of my belly
until I saw it shining on the
hip bone horizons of other girls.
I know that’s not how it’s supposed to work –
you’re supposed to love yourself before you’re capable
of loving others –
but
the human heart is capable of firehosing blood for 30 feet
just imagine how far love could travel
if you aimed it right
and what it could do
reflected in the mirrors of other people’s arms.
trigger warning: body issues, eating disorder
Dear body,
I have not always been the most faithful.
I have loved the Indianas of other women’s bellies
and the Appalachians of their ilia.
I have imagined their tiny clementine breasts in place
of your heirloom melons. I have
accused your hands of the crime of
being too wise –
I’m sorry for that.
I have treated you less like a temple
and more like a temptation
to call my skin sin.
From my father I received my nose
hairs,
doll-size ears,
and knees on rusty hinges;
from my mother,
feet that like to run,
myopia,
and the trichotillomania that compels me to
pothole my face
into a road so ragged it is difficult to
reach the destination of my eyes
without getting stuck along the way.
Dear body,
do you remember when Alex’s mom
used to call me Skinny Minnie and
you stood tall as birthday balloons
like you had accomplished something
simply by existing?
Remember when, three years later,
Mom said “chubby”
and you deflated like you had failed?
I know we have a grab bag history:
our handshakes with anorexia
(never a closer relationship) giving way to
our barnacle-knuckled grip
on body positivity.
I learned how to read a scale before
I learned how to take my own
pulse.
I have loved you loudly,
but sometimes those who love their
bodies loudest still believe they would
love their bodies louder if their bellies grew
perpendicular to gravity.
Dear body,
you have transformed paper into art,
bicycles into vehicles,
and rum into kisses and
impossible amounts of urine –
and people say you’re not magic?
you are not a temple –
you are the prayers that fill it.
Dear body,
I think you should know that
I did not learn to love the Venus curve of my belly
until I saw it shining on the
hip bone horizons of other girls.
I know that’s not how it’s supposed to work –
you’re supposed to love yourself before you’re capable
of loving others –
but
the human heart is capable of firehosing blood for 30 feet
just imagine how far love could travel
if you aimed it right
and what it could do
reflected in the mirrors of other people’s arms.
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