“forest on my throat” -Dan Dissinger
Do not speak about this. Do not explain this as a tickle or gargle of maps reminiscent of five years ago. This has been diagnosed and shelved. This has been neatly folded and attic’d. Throat cannot be a place where campers go. Throat cannot be a jungle of peeled species. Just call it passageway or tunnel toward trachea. Call it a situation for swallowing but do not do not DO NOT call it greenwood or bushland. This will make others want to navigate your coordinates. This will call too much attention to what drips in there. You call it swimming pool of muscle. Call it tongue, please. Do not glamorize the strength of your mammalia.
Put away your colors. The roots of your state lines. No one needs to know about the lineage of your wrists. Your belly is just a belly; it is not not not blue-lined construction paper with scratch outs and hauntings. Your face is just malnourished of symmetry. There is no need to beg for awards just because your lips exist and your moles follow a pattern parallel to constellations. There is no magic in you. Use your toes for counting. Put away your scar tissue, covered in shadow’d faschia from that time that time.What are you looking for have you found it? No, you may not use your knees as a tax write-off, nor your gag or eardrums. You may fold, but do not call yourself paper or weekly or subscribed or footnoted. You are not a thesis, nor an essay worthy of citing. This is not a metaphor. You are just body. You are just em(bodied]. You are just that.
Aimee, you really know how to take the mess of my words and find a cogent space for whatever the image is lusting to be and let it grow there.