Lament for the Man Who
Changed his Mind
Let’s forget our lives. Let’s start at our birth and
work our way back
out of the screaming. I gave up
my body to whatever would let me forget it
and I woke up with thirty-seven scars.
Each with its own story: this one I was born with
(and the rest as well).
Place your brain into my body and let’s say something eloquent,
like fuck it. That’s it,
the phrase to say. It begins with profanity
and ends with the world looking gorgeous from any pair of eyes.
How unfair is that? In your body, I think I would
know the difference
between vase and vase. I would stand in front of a tall mirror
and make my pecs dance. I would share it through the internet.
I want to steal your gangly arms, your open face;
leave my own as offal and untouchable.
What I want
is to comb your hair with your fingers.
The history of the skeleton
is one of carelessness; the bones are careless
with the muscle, the muscle insouciant with the skin.
So give me yours.