The Body Poem Project: Glucosamine, Ibuprofen, and Smoke

Glucosamine, Ibuprofen, and Smoke 

The man ran and ran through the market,

Pushing aside baskets and vases, 

The chased criminal only wanted a safe bed, 

He curled up on the yellow comforter and tried to sleep. 

In the restaurant, I peed on the stairs,

A man commented on my indiscretion, 

The woman dining with him observed me, too, 

I stood there putting on my “trousers.”

My legs are folded and my left knee hurts. 

My calloused big toe hurts, but my knee hurts more. 

My body feels wide and empty. 

I am floating slowly in it. 

My mother says, “The air quality is poor, don’t exert yourself.” 

I work outside, in the air, but must be careful. 

So, I am not breathing fully,

Shallow breaths and a metallic taste in the back of my throat. 

My upper back is sore from shoveling. 

My shoulders ache, but my back hurts more. 

My body feels heavy and slow. 

I am slowly sinking in it. 

My mother says, “It’s OK, he is not angry with you.” 

But I am careful and do not go to meet him. 

So, I am sitting alone while father dies, 

Shallow breaths, and a picture of him crying. 

The monk gave the criminal sanctuary. 

The victims demanded justice, but he stood firm. 

I ache with injustice, but lack a champion. 

My heart thuds, my body awaiting further tragedy.