My Body

But I am nothing whole.

Sound me like some brass thing
my inevitable voice will ring
out empty and
heavy as my father’s hand.
How can nothing weigh so much?
How can empty days be so full of pain?

I am the teeth
the hair I stand to lose.
I am the cardboard memories of youth.
I am naked— my virtual space a death mask.

How can nothing weigh so much and empty days be
so full of pain?

I have plans.
Little rainy days, they pass
make full my calendar
with lists of nothing to do.
How can nothing hold my hand
like a little pill,
like a ring?

(c) 1993 Catherine Weaver All rights reserved.

BigWhiteBlockMuthaFuckaz

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