Round ruby blood cells, the grey
labyrinth of nerves, and then my heart.
Ingredients: Bone, white matter, muscle.
We are filled of fluids with intent,
unconscious muscles that power us
in a continuous pendulum.
I never recall my numerous parts
until there are parts that hurt.
My shivering skin, the scraped kneecap –
interactions with the outside world
that bring my insides to the surface.
I have waited all day for the feeling to come back –
Contusion. Clavicle. Collapse. Coagulation.
Platelets rise to my protection.
How careless we are with the skin that holds us all together.
I learn that what we ingest and what we remark soon make us –
with you, I am made of clashes. In the absence of you,
still the red marks remain.
Rebecca Connors is a poet living and writing in Boston, MA.
Eunoia Review 