“IF THE BODY MUST BE A PERSON”
— after Morgan Parker
sometimes writing is a thing that happens to me. i do not mean that i awake with what i’ve dreamt tattooed down my scalp. silly, the body is non-fiction.
rather, i mean poems watch me in my sleep. stooped like crows across the heater. i feel
each of their feathers considering flight. i do
not mean i feel while asleep. silly, the body is allegory.
rather, the poem is a thirsty moon asking my blood to dance. i’ve dreamt of drowning every night this week. i do not mean that my head fills with blackened water. silly, the body is hyperbole.
rather, each poem is a weeded ocean my birth mother is downing in. i do not mean that adoption has turned my blood invisible. silly,
the body is analogy.
rather, the absence of said mother means i come from everyone or no one’s body. i do not mean that each poem is an attempt to write myself born. silly, the body is euphemism.
rather, each poem is my birth mother pregnant with my kicking name. i do not mean that my birth mother is a notebook aging with poems. silly, the body is ekphrastic.
rather, my birth mother shows up in every stanza. i do not mean, she is a moon or some grief-colored crow, rustling her feathers in its light. silly, the body is foreshadowed.
rather, i awake from some earth-less dream, some terrible truth, some loose language, where every poem is but birdseed. i awake quickly, as a fire does, to find again, a friend. a flightless thing. hungry for her son to speak
— DONTE COLLINS
(poem and photo by)
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