Laps Around the Sun

. . . the grown hair that’s cut,

The hair that grew through mind’s tangles,

To sprout a mane; color the only similarity,

nature’s gift bleached and dyed away

under warm showers, minty shampoos,

and serrated thunderstorms.

. . . the nails clipped, that which sprouted from meaty beds,

The nails that dug into palms with hands held and fists formed,

The same pale white to be filed down by the skin’s scratch,

The dirt caught underneath tells me of where I was,

Not where I will be.

. . . the tossed clothes worn,

Clothes once cherished, now a size down,

To find another, to be found, in thrift buckets,

But fitting the same frail body all over again,

Resting on the same clavicles, pulled over a different colored mane,

Each outfit’s well-worn lessons now erased,

In one stitch, out the next.

. . . the falling leaves, the leaves that shift,I am the shedding tree, the colors grown,

Green oceans, frozen orange,I am the barren forest,

Awaiting the season’s change -- no, 

Renewal. 

. . . the white tooth’s plaque forming,

Grounded down by waking bristles,

And the tireless clenches,

A sweet tooth’s wake

Entrenched by unnamed men in whiter coats,

Molars holding onto every word said: “cavity”.

Gagged by a crown. 

. . . the meals eaten,

Made by hands, buttons, and crinkled bags,

Dirty dishes, proof of days lived,

Triplets nagging in the sink,

“A new day’s possibility?” I ask, “No, a new week.”

Washer tells me, expecting the next cycle to be run,

Not an ambling stroll. 

. . . the 46 chromosomes, life’s spur,

Restless instructions, a how-to

Tell them bones how to fill a skin,

A skin that fits only collarbones,

Shoulders untailored. 

The padding slid under,

Messy needlework, but how coincidental?

To kiss the ground with paired feet,

Waiting for the day to scratch back with quintet cuticles,

Bleeding yesterday’s paint onto tomorrow’s gravel cheeks.

. . . the hands that spin, as the moon does, around Gaia’s eye,

No, no, I am the eye that blinks,

the eye, that questions what’s missed between the clasps,

I am the eye that peers back

Out and around its own socket, back beyond Gaia’s,

To be singed by Helios’ glare -- turn the other way, a memory seared. 

. . .  pray to be one of many,

A cacophonous orchestra,

An erratic wand swinging conductor that I am yet to see,

Am I who flips the pages, or

The soloist with quivering hands?

Fingertips cut or callused or both?

Watching the measures fly by, distracted by the beat’s fleeting tempo,

Waiting for the wall that’s the double bar.            

Trimmed hair, dirt under the fingernails,

T-shirt collar stretched, & falling leaves,

Molars in duress from meals chewed.

Raucous timbre.

or repeat - coda