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