Autopsy of a toddler

I liked it, the hundreds of pounds
that ground me into winestalk soil.
I was an ounce, a tadpole and tail
left to nudge its head wherever else.
By the clapping hands of that bright room
where I learned what surgery was
I also took my own stake in staring out.
So much astigma, looking all about,
on the altar and the miracle of Y-incisions
like my boyhood alphabet itself in the mouth.
The mouth of stutters and evening crouch,
the slices my dwarf lip found in Glasgow.
Physical war, physical bombs I made
thinking, what is this pressure, what is
this same rocking forth I so enjoyed
within my mother’s rocking placenta,
and how can it burn my brains the same?


~ by Jeremy on March 17, 2011.

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