What would it take to make a city in me?

line from a poem by Robin Ekiss

A sturdier frame: steel, iron, infrastructure that will not crack.
Brick, perhaps. Mortar. A mason’s sturdy, practiced hand.

Concrete veins with road signs. Bowel Boulevard. Aorta Avenue.
Sparks of firing synapse to light the always-midnight streets.

A good Chinese restaurant in the twists and turns of intestine,
a wide acre of park in the fresh air of expanding lungs.

But a city needs a populace. Children who drool to oil the joints.
Neighbors knocking on the ribcage if the heart beats too loud.

So I prepare to swallow, mouth stretched wide as city sky. I lie
still, hands resting on my belly, wait for the scaffolding to rise.

Photo by Cameron Grant