Even though I won’t ever see them again, I still carry them.
Inside and outside
On the lining of my heart
And the edges of my brain
Beneath my fingernails
Or hanging from an eyelash.
They saturate my writing and my words
Sloping from an s, or cradled in a y.
Sometimes, they are even in a glass of whiskey glass of wine.
But this is about the body.
If you were to unwind me out across the earth,
Spread out this fleshboat of a body crack open the ribs and peer beneath the surface—
They would be there too.
Resting on an iliac
Sleeping in a clavicle
Wrapped around the vertebrae
They trickle through the veins.
A small room, and the feel of them inside of it
The light and how it pours in through the window
A book of poetry upon the nightstand A guitar sitting in the…