Pictured: You’ve got to put all these gods somewhere. Someone might need them later.
I fear nothing. Except The shrinking of the sky, the closing of doors, shadows making mouths swallow; the day when I will wonder what is left of me, and where did I leave it, and whether the interest payments have outlived the principal. Yes, I rejuvenate myself with your skin, your blood, but by your leave I thrill at scattering love on the ground Watching the birds gobble and carry it away, praising me with cries; I fear reaching in my pocket for more and finding only crumbs, pity, not scorn, on your face, and a closing door. I'm missing too many parts. It seemed wrong to hoard- my head, my eyes, belong to the world, you said; I had promised someone those hands to remember me by, and another, my skull, to laugh and remember while I sat grinning on his desk. But there are softer parts missing too- not stolen or squandered, but absent, and I am somehow still able to walk upright, talk, sleep, and pretend, while unwhole. I know it's not my fault (but thank you for reminding me) though I still feel it acutely, looking at your family photos and smelling the sea in midday in the city.
I really appreciate that your third post for this stack was not a hard-hitting screed or in-depth analysis and takedown, but a poem. And one of your own. It gives me really good feelings about this thing.
I like the line "I'm missing too many parts." Also, "smelling the sea/in midday in the city."
I love the poem. Thank you.