With the new day, my body
has turned hostile. Even my fingernails
have it out for me. My lips make shapes
I find ugly and embarrassing. My nose
can’t shake the smell of turnips.
My ears have started plotting
to take control of my head.
Everything tastes like Mondays.
Why can’t I be Oprah in a girdle?
Her body always behaves,
unless she’s wearing yellow. I think I lost
my foot, the single leg of impatient
seconds twitching. Running late
leads to percussive elbows.
Where’d I put my thingamabob?
Time to saddle up my donkey,
if my ass will cooperate.
Passing a mirror, I catch a glimpse of my
tangled breasts. The bra will set them straight.
¿En dónde están mis pantalones flacos,
los derretimiento?
My hands never fail to materialize.
My body and I always handle these incidents
gingerly and without witness.

Words: “oh, my rebellious body” by Dana Guthrie Martin
Image: “result of subcutaneous injection” by H.H. Kane (Philadelphia, 1881.)