Restless


My body's a nomad.  Even skin

is a burden.  They say the uterus

can journey along the limbs,

the train-track nerves, hide

in the space between functions.


I am a nineteenth-century girl,

at home with hysterics.

Want to pack up the baked-brick

bones, rearrange the neural

furniture.  Something holds


out its arms, demands up

in the long cells of the muscles;

a traveler in the vessels, always

one beat ahead of the blood.


Not even a scar can stick.  Ink

runs, pierced holes close.

The terrain of my body swallows

signposts, refuses to specialize.


Once my heart leapt into my throat

but even that didn't last.

Copyright © 1999-2017 Juked