Untitled 02/14/2008

by Lacey Smith

I am locking all the doors
to the inside of my organs,
palpable and white,
tissue fortresses tucked away
for safe-keeping,
armies alerted by
bundles and bundles of nerves.

Deep inside this shipwreck of a stomach
are pages of words shaped into cranes.
The constant folding and unfolding,
steeples made of hands,
swords and canons,
the white noise hush,
and the body's disintegrating grammar.

My coat is an ocean,
and my algae limbs a constant cause for worry.
Hurrying down the street,
the light flickers off as I pass,
my body awash in the waves.
I lost all my commas there,
abandoned the vowels.

I have hydroelectric veins now,
pulsating pores that throb and thrust.
My heart conducts heat
and my chest fills
with black smoke,
leaving no fingerprints at all,
no evidence and no clues.


Author's Note: I just found this recently. I'm not even entirely sure what it is about, per se, but I'd like to assume that the date has nothing to do with a Hallmark holiday. At least in my memory.

Posted on 10/17/2011
Copyright © 2021 Lacey Smith

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