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J. C. Watson
Dissatisfaction eggshells
and jelly.
If you
walk on her, she cracks.
When she falls, it's always on her face.
She keeps
trying on new bodies.
Last week
it was stone.
Today,
it's vinyl;
she is
sweating to death,
but doesn't
want to go back
to all
that breakage
and wet.
She will.
She liked
herself best as ice,
thick,
she could see
where
she was walking,
but then
her heart froze.
She wonders
if she
were ever whole−
not in
her fragmented memory.
Her favorite
piece of art is Mount Rushmore.
She wants
to be born like that,
emerging
from a mountain,
unbeatable,
gravel for blood.
Her face
turned from the earth,
full of
its own majesty.
This is
her prayer. She believes
in all
things unbending, unmeltable.
She waits
for heaven, and a hard place
in the
end.
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