An Unscientific View of Embodiment

You might not recognize it at first
But my body is made of stars.

I did not know this for too many lifetimes
But I know it now and I am saying it out loud so I don't forget

I am made of stars.
I am the world's hipsterest constellation
Stars so obscure, hipsters haven't even  heard of them
Sparrow major and spero minor are only two of many

I have not always been kind to my body
I cut and pasted words from magazines onto construction paper
and mailed myself bomb threats
I held my breath hostage

I think I thought people wouldn't hear my body
if I silenced it in overlarge clothing
but the body speaks even when we don't want it to
It takes up space, even when we think ourselves nothing

And I am sorry now for all the times I asked my body for a divorce
And grateful now for all the times my body said no
It doesn't work like that
We don't get to be incorporeal: this is not a practice run

One day I ripped to ribbons the books I wrote on how not to be heard
I took a sledgehammer to the bricks I threw through my own windows
And a machete to the paintings of the times I made my body a carcass instead of a holy place
And I didn't think anything would be left.
I thought if I stopped hating myself I would run out of passion.

But what remained were the ingredients for paper-mache
And an insistent burning that reminded me
I can make of my heart a black hole
Or a solar system

I am made of stars
I give off heat and light
If you come close enough you can feel the warmth
You can see the glow

Envie

My favorite color is aubergine,
which is French for eggplant,
which is really just purple with delusions of grandeur.

A close second is merlot,
which is French for merlot,
which is really just wine with similar misconceptions.

These colors are rich,
probably more self-important than they ought to be,
which I find simultaneously familiar and attractive.
Short things that think themselves tall.

I thought, for most of my life, that what I wanted was aubergine and merlot.
Beautiful, round-bottomed vegetable
and full-bodied, fruit and pepper wine.
Soft, dark, quiet intensity.

A visit to Appalachia in the fall
and a week of missed phone calls
taught me that what my teeth crave is not softness,
but ferocity.

We work, dear friend, because you are loud, brash, hungry.
In all the ways I am a soft place to land,
you are a war cry and spit on the stoop.
You are not tame.

My darling, color of fire,
I found you among the autumn leaves,
vibrant and truculent in the Appalachian landscape.

I picked an orange and yellow bouquet,
set it on the table.
I ate eggplant, drank wine,
and missed you.