Adult, UnbornMy body, my mind churn:
cauldron of night,
where stars should be.
If I’m being honest with myself,
I’m never okay.
Chaos— I know well,
friend turned lover
survival my skin, wrung
until I shrivel
into the curl of a November leaf,
to an embryonic state:
enwombing my world.
I grip this life’s lining,
a child grasping
the bottom of his mother’s floating dress,
just out of reach.
Home, ArrestedWalls—bare winter trees;
ceiling, slanted—overhead landslide;
tan wardrobe, ivory chest-of
open doors, open drawers—
this attic bedroom for three weeks:
left boxes, unemptied;
picture frames, stacked;
bedside tables—a cluttered bric-a-brac,
In school, I learned to live
For any movement or inflection change
I might stand trial,
whipped before the verdict.
Always, I pled guilty,
fixed my expressiveness into rigidity—a statue—
to secure imprisonment,
self-sentencing to stop
Even now, dancing alone in this room,
it’s as if at least one person watches.
as if at least one person judges.
The body—our first abode.
I’m always ready to leave
as soon as I move in.
David Hanlon @DavidHanlon13 is a confessional poet from Cardiff, Wales, now living in Bristol, England. He is a Best of the Net nominee. You can find his work online in over 40 online magazines. His first chapbook Spectrum of Flight is available for purchase now at Animal Heart Press. https://www.animalheartpress.net/p/purchase-spectrum-of-flight.html?m=1
Banner Art: Stations of the Age, a drawing by Robert Frede Kenter