My body is an argument I did not start.
—Morgan Parker, “AND COLD SUNSET”
My body is a business deal I did not broker. It is a buffet
I cannot eat. My body is Doppler radar tracking a storm
that will not make landfall where I live. It is a novel
I will not collect royalties from. It is a porno I would never
jerk off to. My body is a cardboard box of perfectly good oranges
set out on the sidewalk next to the garbage pickup, and I walk past,
consider how a few oranges would fit in the broad pocket of my hoodie,
but I leave it all there for the rodents. What they leave
behind will disappear on pick-up day. My body is a math problem
I cannot teach you to solve. It is deep-throated wind chimes
on the porch, and I am going deaf. My body is a medical bill
I cannot afford. It is a chrysalis in the tall ditch line, and I am
too afraid of copperheads to watch it crack. My body is a list of things
that I will never read to you. It is a list of things that will never be
crossed off. My body is a language that I do not want to speak to you.