This House, My Body

long legs, long arms, all jangles, wisps and elongated arches, which in a long line of instances
become a grove of trees that we drive through on our way to a country picnic

my fingers, loose laces that twine with hair and lashes and coy looks that reveal lipsticked lips
and words that pop like blown bubbles floating in mid-air

my belly protruding like a fat baby’s lip
coaxing slippery fingers to the pinch

 

my hips, my fanny, my crutch, the thick mess of curly black fronds
opening like the palm of my hand from which to drink
this succulent tunnel that would slurp the sea like an inward tide then pour out
in a rush of revelation all manner of creatures, each one newly named


my short shod feet, clumps of clay that hit the dusty road
making particle puffs that long to be seen –
flitting starlets through shafts of light

my toes wriggling like pigs to market

my heart, light source, dark source, singing songs of sirens and drunken sailors
hoisting sails with thick rope, twisted hemp
like the long plaits of the girl I once was
my heart waving, my heart like a gull, my heart a distant cousin –
bluebeard’s wife drawn to the one forbidden room at the far end of the castle


have you walked in the open field?

did you lay down in the grass?
does the wagon stand, still?
did you hang by the neck?


my eyes, short-sighted, veiled, dim, crusted over, poked out
ancient hag holding what would light the way in my stubborn clenched fist


my brow, furrowed like an overworked field, seed plucked and ground by wayward cockies


my chest is a battle field, slashed by steel blades and pummelled by rearing horses
whose eyes roll white, lit by the crack of Ares’ whip, lightning reversed as terror


knees knocking, giving way


tongue tight, taunt, spitting like a cut snake


bowels heaped upon heaps of rancid shit
manure of failure, stored up, clumsy bog
roots of a strangled pot
silt of lies, entrails of betrayal
dank store of the lost


the story in my vertebrae is my mother’s loss
in my blood the Jews are singing


did you kneel amongst the reeds?
did the sky run down your back?
did the water run over your face?
did you draw breath?


a baby was born in my finger tips


my body, my house.

 

Samantha Bews June 2018

Published: Confessions Vol 9: Constellations. Boston USA 2019