Inside the Body

Saying things can be hard. I try
to keep quiet, but the apartment
does not clean itself. I fiasco with the
windstorm named after a young
woman I once knew in Chicago.
I hope her hair has grown back.
I hope her nose has stopped glowing.
I step onto the bus and walk
into a sudden recollection. I am
standing on my hands under-
water wondering why you are not
impressed. The new mangoes lie
in the fruit basket. Wow, that's
nearly perfect, and when I hold
the basket between my lips it is
an emblem of love. If I reach out
with my left hand it is to sell fish
wholesale. The right hand belches
and obeys nothing. These frantic
messengers with long hair and golden
belt buckles arrive calling for the
marriage of opposites. They are covered
in sweat and swearing at me. Why should
I show them my ID? It's true, I delay
the obvious. All things made flesh
fall to pieces. For this we learn to speak.

Copyright © 2007 Nathan Hoks All rights reserved
from Crazyhorse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission