Friday, May 6, 2016

Harvest

I step between the twitching, steaming heaps,
on the prowl for fresh additions
to my ever-changing form.
I am the one from many, my mask
a mirrorball whose every facet
reflects a sliver of each of your faces.
I slice and saw, staple and stitch, stuffing my chest
full of extra lungs and livers so that if one fails
I'll always carry a stockpile of replacements.
I hobble along on two mismatched legs,
keeping all my eyes out for a third.
But why not four, or six?
Why not scurry through the rubble
like a centipede with limbs of every size
and shape and color?
From my many crotches will blossom
a fleshy garden of pilfered pudenda.
From my back will sprout a bouquet
of Shiva arms spreading like a fan,
each clutching a scrap of paper
covered with your words, from which
I will assemble a patchwork elegy
then read it back to you
with your own mouths.

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