From The Shadow (5)

Body my house
my horse my hound
what will I do
when you are fallen
-May Swenson

When craning my neck, vertebrae rose like stegosaurus plates—
+++++++++++++++++++++++maybe a primal defense
provoked by my reptile brain. Arms & legs also of the bird people,
+++++++++++++++++++++++if I had to escape
my only hope was to out-run the lions taking stock. I had to grow
+++++++++++++++++++++++my bear, throw
my body to the racks—but every repetition betrayed this staging for its lack.

The form I see in photos is not the body I see in the mirror. Whereas
+++++++++++++++++++++++that striation, these
glass wrists. Whereas that broad chest, this crooked spine. The body
+++++++++++++++++++++++is a difficult animal
to share space with—always shifting size & shape so the soul can’t
+++++++++++++++++++++++settle in. So the margins
of dignity & dynasty seldom hold. I want a dark island, or some armor that fits.

---

Do I skip the gym to write these poems?
Risk a film of fat to coat my bones?
If I connect the scars from these surgical incisions,
my torso holds a ragged greater-than symbol.
What is my value today?
It depends on which men later stand next to me,
what I see that day in the mirror:
Do my shoulders roll forward?
Skin doughing between chest and ribs?
Scarecrow legs poking through billowy pants?
If I lose ten pounds to prevent another blood clot,
is my body dense enough to brace the bloated shadow collapsing into it?

---

This body will fail me, I know. +++++++++++++++++++++I know
++++++each cellular replication ++++++++++++++degrades

the connections. Already my knees
++++++swell & ache. +++++++++++++Already my teeth
loosen +++++++at the root ++++++Sometimes this arm

throbs to remind me ++++we survive
++++++++++++by the slimmest margins— +++++a gap
in the teeth
of Time’s +++++whorish gape. ++++++++++++++++++++Still,

I return to the body.
I relish +++++++its angles +++++++& genius.
++++++++++++The way it ++++++++++++holds +++++++the voice
+++++++rattling ++++++my ribcage.

++++++I climb the rafters, ++++++++++++sprint across
city bridges, throw +++++iron plates overhead
++++++++++++only because +++++++++I am able.

++++++++++++But show me +++how
++++++to love+++++++a body ++++++without
++++++++++++the need ++++++++++++++++++to grind it
into an image ++++++++the world +++++is willing
++++++++++++to reflect.

+++++The body is ++++++++a difficult
++++++++++++animal ++++++++++but
++++++++++++++++++at least
I know
+++++++++++++++++what it eats

Blood Clot: Coda

I’m no shaman, but I’ve lived and died
many times, and here I am singing.
-Marilyn Kallet

Swollen arm
neck, flank
shoulder
Veins like
worms stuffed
in sausage
Blood clot
lysed. Sluice
of meds
Pissing 8 oz
of black-red
blood, sebaceous
like yesterday’s
coffee. Blood from
the oldest hurt
Rib, excised
Forced to breathe
into lack
amplify absence
Dilaudid drip
Bottles of
Xarelto, Percocet
Not shitting
for a week
Wound leaking
fluid like
neon urine
Collateral veins
now varicose
Skin with
firecracker
bruises. Bills
from the surgeon
bills from the
anesthesiologist
bills from
diagnostics
bills from
pathology
bills from the
hospital with
inflated dosages
duplicate charges
from all the above
A summer of
anemia: I gulped
breaths through
July’s wilt, dodged
knives & thin
paper, let this body
wither. I lost
30 pounds
I lost a good love
I lost hours
memories
the last months
of my twenties
reviving the fugue
depression exposed
years ago
A walking melody
to carry me
miles from
my office through
Knoxville’s suburban
sprawl. A bourbon
melody to blunt
me with a familiar
hammer. A poet’s
melody for fare-
well notes &
valedictions
A white flag melody
to evaluate
reliable methods
I woke in the haze
of each predawn
and chewed frozen
grapes to cool
myself. Through the fog
the droning notes
one friend offered
her silence, and
I sheathed myself
until
the loudest
answers fell away
Can’t remember
all the fat
I trimmed
but I know
what I gained
In 2015
I did not
kill myself
I decided
to sing.

Andrew P. Dillon graduated in the University of Tennessee’s inaugural MFA class. His work is forthcoming or has appeared most recently in Second Chance Lit, Beautiful Cadaver Project, Analog, Stirring, and Connotation Press. He lives in Nashville while he completes his first collection. He strongly supports the use of semicolons, em dashes, and the serial comma. Visit his website at andrewdillonpoetry.com.