My musculature is incoherent,
chattering in a fragmented pidgin
built in childhood—a Babel of hips
balancing over knees, a spine leaning
bending and lurching toward heaven,
a head nodding wherever. I remember
tilting low until my chin started to rise.
Three light pounds drifted and curled me up.
I was like a caterpillar uncoiling
from a branch, tongueless and speechless and years
from upright. Gotta grow, little inchworm,
gotta stitch a gibberish cocoon and take
the measure of Earth, where species are sorted
in terms of bent thumbs and towering spines.
No comments:
Post a Comment