Nolcha Fox
I Can’t Fit into My Body
This body is a bad suit,
a body with a mind.
My elbows are glued
to my arms all wrong.
They smack doorposts,
tumble vases, flowers
and all.
My fingers don’t reach
to the ends of my arms.
I fumble keys,
drop hot casserole dishes.
My knees are balloons
that bulge and bruise
from table edges.
These legs, oh
these legs demand
a different destination
from where I want to go.
My feet stumble over
invisible rocks.
My toes are too long
for my sandals,
they break just because.
Where is that distracted tailor
who sewed me together?
I want my money back.
Useful
I unplug my head
recharging on the counter.
I shake it,
nothing rattles.
Empty again.
Not a memory of
friends, family
before today. Only
a sense of
the pain I caused.
Love-starved,
thinking only of myself.
How can I say
I’m sorry to
faceless faces?
I should trade this
head in for
one that functions.
Turning it upside down,
I fill it with dog treats.
Now it’s useful.
Out of Order
I cannot pull myself together.
My foot is planted in my mouth
Upside down, toes wiggling,
next to tulips and lilies.
I water them every Monday.
My right eye blinks
on my left knee,
looking for grease.
The elbow where my foot once was
is afraid of slipping.
An ear on the heel
of my right foot
is to the ground,
listening to my teeth
that are down in the mouth.
My fingers sprout
from my derriere,
being underhanded.
My brain is sitting on my gut
because I’m empty-headed.
The saddest part
is no one sees
that I am out of order.
I never felt comfortable
in my own skin.
I poured my insides
into a shell,
let the tide drag
my outside into
blue ocean.
Before I could snuggle
into small darkness,
a woman picked me up
and put me
in her pocket.
Now I’m stuck
in aquarium sand.
I didn’t plan on this at all.