Clay
I was stepping out of drag when it happened. I stood in the shower, scrubbing
off the glaze, wringing greasy smears from the wash cloth, and with them
came dead skin cells who sang as they spiraled down the drain, belting
out the lyric, “You’re not naked yet!” Insightful. I continued rubbing
so vigorously that I removed my face entirely. Left behind: a raw
block with hair and ears, perfectly smooth and still and blank.
Eyeless, I ran my hands all over it for proof. There was no
hole, not even for a mouth, just a comfortable flatness.
I thought, Why stop here? A fresh cloth in hand,
I scrubbed my penis right off, and I had no face
and no sex, I was an unbiased person, until
my fingers brushed my navel. So I erased
that too, eliminating all trace of birth.
I must have looked just as though
my mother were so much clay,
and I a Rorshach mannequin.
And there I was, a divine
chunk, nothing left
to make me
anything
but real.
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
Fun!
second piece i’ve read today here that I’ve loved……totally wild.
oh, i just get so worked up with life when i read your work! Love this. and the structure of the poem, sooo cute. ♥
I like this–really like the way the form of the poem strips away the words as the speaker strips off the levels of self–nice.
Missed this one last summer. I love this! Very spooky, clever, and entertaining.