August's thick sweat Lifts an arm, puckers An elbow. The face A precipice for words: Fall from the precipice, Little cries, and see, Growing smaller And farther, the tight Crease in each cheek, The range of teeth Like Tetons. Turn it Over, and we'll spy The doctor's guess: Chubby legs a minefield of indentation. But time escapes us: we Will know the answers only when we have the evidence before us (better to be buried alive than deadened by unfulfilled hope).
NaPoWriMos 8-10 will be delivered as soon as I find the piece of paper I wrote them on. For now, enjoy Number Eleven, written in honor of my very painful sunburn.
The Aloe Plant
The green giggly gumdrop of your roasted head, all aslather out of the medicine cabinet. A novel resuscitation fluid, it really feels like it's doing something, pores absorbing the juice inherited in a very small pot after an island vacation led to several dermatological emergencies. O fleshy arms, o half-assed spines and weak striation, let me just hack off a limb or two and graft you onto my own dead skin, spark my translucent, green-glazed reflection in the mirror, wincing under light. I'm otherworldly here, cooked and basted, consuming still the juices I can stand, healing whole. O aloe, you see how it is: The sun fed you, but burned me, and now you have to go.