Three Sections of Body
Amber Day
i. My X lover and I play Artificial.
This is the way we fake affection.
Serendipitous gods rain symphony
over bodies snarled in brine.
In my body
I rotate chunks of iodine.
Birds peck memories.
Literal gaps in the image,
fat gobs of sky gone dark.
The swollen moon, a caricature of a bird’s eye—
WARNING/flash flood.
Halogen throat heaves.
Paranoia packs Red in synchronous dreams.
Red ocean, red mirror.
Everything is a mirror.
In this mind’s eye, a network of improbable outcomes
always ends with death.
The mind cannot decipher, we lack.
A whisper from the back: Are we dead yet?
ii. We rewrite the 10 commandments to honor grief (i.e., Love in ruin, all else must follow).
Crushed moth wing, unearth winter.
Moon, curtain memory’s throat.
Flowers, bloom poison, ache
over a body buried.
White noise, consume all frequency.
Derail limbs to Ruin (where
our bodies sweep ash).
Erase language then body then mind.
God, if you’re among us, give us a sign.
Drown memory of the skin-shell,
design new Audience from what remains.
iii. What exists in the poet’s mind exists in experience.
Thoughts do not happen here without consequence.
Thoughts do not happen here.
Emotion replaces fact.
The poem replaces the person.
These words are my memories now.
Amber Day works as a recreation specialist for people on the autism spectrum and is pursuing a Master’s Degree in Child Life to help children cope with illness and hospitalization. Her poetry is forthcoming in Ghost City Review.
