I mean there is no such thing as sky
or I mean I don’t know how to turn myself back on.
I mean I drink as much as is reasonable and it does
make things a little more rosy-fingered than they were
when I woke up in this pale pink dress of a gray morning’s
Sometimes my body is
a mixed metaphor, fixed brass
and a heaving sea in a season
The tongue speaks even if it fills with ants
even if it rots and is no longer the same
it keeps singing or barking or moving aside
so that the screams of silence can be heard louder
La lengua habla aunque se llene de hormigas
aunque se pudra y ya no sea la misma
sigue cantando o ladrando o haciéndose a un lado
para que se oigan más fuertes los gritos del silencio
The body has a rough lot. In most conceptual frameworks, and in most metaphors, it is stripped of all agency, not especially relevant when unyoked from its invisible, more valuable counterparts.
But the body is a rebel. The body does not stay in place.