Prescription

Prescription

 

Eyes come, go:

screen, hands, screen, face, screen, me?

You ask for the potted history:

fifty second film-wrapped setback on a plate.

It is outside, separate. It is not yours.

No, it’s not yours.

 

You would have to mangle a whole body

into a head, into a shoulder, into a lung –

 

stretching down with pinky toe,

ring toe, until every toe

and membrane mimicked mine.

 

Until your calves – caught,

knees – translated onto knees

(torn cruciate ligament on the right.)

 

Until your flanks deciphered soft grazes

on the lodes,

on the hair-wisps of thighs.

 

Midriff overlapping midriff, fingering

every episode, exposure on the soft,

Linea belly Negra line.

 

This line is my line.

This face is my line.

 

You can’t transpose a middle –

every cell: event imprint

a rib / deltoid– equally weighted – eagerness / dis ease.

 

A chest – circled and sucked clean of milk,

like the milk: infusing growth / feeling

into bellies, bones.

 

You can’t map a muscle memory of arms, hands –

warred in sport and

loss-circled in grief.

 

Or an ecstasy that rockets in the throat, announces to the head

to be moved by art, a one-off action,

or by uncomplicated, childlike joy.

 

And you can’t become a body –

lying on a dark bed.  When everything is out of reach

and can’t quite be grappled with either.

 

And you can’t become a body –

lying on a bed.  Become a body, when everything is out of reach

lying on a bed. Become a body, when everything is out of reach. Become a body that can’t

quite be grappled with either.

 

You can’t, you can’t, you can’t.

 

So you prescribe these pills instead.