atheist puddle dweller or whispered scar collector

If I were to call my body an atheist, would that mean there was nothing left on my skin to question or believe. If I used the metaphor of a thousand cardboard boxes broken down and hushed into plastic bags as my body, would that be enough to visualize. How about a lost hitchhiker jumping on the back of metal and bumps, curled into corner against window trying to invision a way out of itself.

We have begun to name snowstorms and I wonder if we do this to place blame on something that slows down our day, freezes up our bent parts and throws us down. When it melts, ice forms or puddles and now that I have boots made by Canadian prisoners, I stomp in them. There is no fear left when protection is worn.

But what happens when entire body is a puddle and there is no costume or uniform to defend oneself from the splash.

Notice the reflection of Wednesday in that spilt body. Or the aggression of oil swirled in like leaked rage. Notice the blemishes; try to medicate it away or stomp it into something less dimensional.

I have been dwelling inside this construction site called body for over three decades or maybe more than that but what I remember can only fit inside a plastic bag big enough for a meal of rushed bites. Others are pushing for an explanation of how this puddle got like this or why it insists on exchanging shapes (sometimes) or why it used to welcome stranger’s punches and soiled footprints but now but now but now it needs to grant permission.


Perhaps my body is more like a near-sighted mountain lion: roar of genders and fur, sharp-toothed poetics and agility. Does any of this even matter.

Here is how it ends: set fire to body to see what part you (choose) to save first.

[what remains is what existed all along]

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