Composition
       

The body is a mass of hair and teeth
                                                        that walks and talks. Three hundred and five bones then
two-o-six. Two parts oxygen, one part fire. A child
                                                        has all his life's teeth in his head, waiting to descend.
Impermanence is pushed out. Everything after
                                                        is a commitment. Vast rooms of empty space between
atoms. Vast rooms in a suburban mansion
                                                        which is a metaphor for late stage capitalism
and also the body. Blood is a connective tissue
                                                        made of cells and cell fragments and liquid. A gallon
of milk is a body's blood. It's something
                                                        to cry over. You are made from clay or carbon or one cell
ate another cell and the second cell
                                                        didn't notice. This happened billions of cells ago.
So it was your mother's cells met your father's
                                                        at a church picnic and no one noticed how the wind picked
up and scattered the paper plates.
                                                    You might be fo rgiven for thinking there's an order to
things. This applies to childbirth and this applies to love.
                                                    Two parts gin, one part Luxardo. The connective tissue
is a cord and our bodies are breath and fire
                                                    yoked together. We are never easy with what ties us.
A mother's body is one part then two
                                                    parts ever after; departure is the slowest part
in part because it's already over.

Tweet
Copyright © 2019 Rebecca Hazelton All rights reserved
from Southern Indiana Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission