Anatomy
praise songs from the tender wreckage
This poetry has no spine.
Has nothing to keep it standing.
•
It cannot be malicious
for death has robbed it of its sting.
•
This poetry has no fingers to point,
nor feet to carry it further than parsing.
•
Maybe not “parsing.”
That implies some understanding.
Disorganized,
it tries to draw a line.
Place hash marks so events
line up with all the emotions
jostling for space.
But, all it knows are circles.
•
This poetry has no stomach.
Can’t keep anything down.
For godssakes how many days
lying on the ground?
•
Has no knees to knock together.
•
No fists to clench to beat bloody.
•
Not even a wall to ram a head
it doesn’t have against.
•
Has no shoulders to shake.
•
No vocal cords to shut up.
•
This poetry has no ears
to listen to therapy.
•
Has no heart to give one damn.
•
Has no nose,
not even to smell its own bullshit.
•
All it has is a mouth.
•
Angry, red,
with gnashing, black teeth.
•
Greedy,
a mouth that bites
at everything.
•
Marking the passage of time
by how often it can spit
into eternity’s face.
•
A mouth with bad breath,
a dead breath,
heaving full into the face of redemption.
About the Creator
Guia Nocon
Poet writing praise songs from the tender wreckage. Fiction writer working on The Kalibayan Project and curator of The Halazia Chronicles (published on Ao3).
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