My body’s built of rubber bands & steak.

The first time I sprinted to the woods & back


the earth pulled out beneath & belched tectonic

assuasions. I was heavier then. I’d grown


accustom to debriding abrasions sustained

invading enemy tree forts, falling for the big


idea, blood leaking from escapes I created.

Later, I buried a dog in the yard & a tree grew


then the forts of my childhood appeared

in its branches. I stepped on a nail & listed


Turtles to calm myself: Leonardo, Michelangelo;

Picasso made a wayward stroke amid rows


of stacking cubes & simultaneous angles down

a narrow corridor of museum which changed


hands during the war, her hand in my pocket

as I pointed – she was a soccer player


made of ribbons & filet – we shuffled up

to see & set off a small alarm. The guard


in a collared shirt, sweating like I used to,

asked us in French, then German, then English


to run away darlings, you are dangerously close.

My body’s made of cardboard & hot glue.

Photo: Soccer by Rhea Monique