07: The Body - July 2021

Body Broken

 I wonder,
 with my body and your body
 and so many other bodies
 on this planet, how much 
 we break the body
 of space that surrounds us
  I think about the way
 we exchange the air we breathe
 with the abounding atmosphere
 in our inhales and exhales,
 how they pollute the rising
 horizons and the fading
 paper-mâché fantasies
 with equally paper-mâché people.
 Just two days ago
 at the diner I used to often visit,
 a girl wearing a green crocheted beanie
 with coffee stains on her flower dress
 tells me about this truth she always believed, 
 the fact that we slowly break
 our own bodies as we break
 the body of this world in which we live.
 As she speaks,
 the intruding sunset bleeds
 into the breaches of the diner
 windows, and I feel my body
 exposed to the begging touch
 of nature itself. I ask if
 she feels the warmth receding
 beyond the tangible. She argues
 that warmth is a relationship between 
 the prominence of the sun’s ignitions
 and the watchful, hidden guard
 of the silent moonlight glow.
 Eventually, we are left
 in the company of shadows
 dancing to the beating
 of silence residing between us.
 I utter the word brokenness
 as if it were an anthem, bottling
 the absence of sound
 only to shatter it on the surface
 of the uncrowded wooden table.
 The girl whistles softly
 before inquiring about my opinion
 on such a topic. I tell her brokenness
 mirrors warmth in its nature, how
 it is a relationship between the absence
 of pursuing restoration and the attraction
 hauling us toward crashed skies
 containing smoke-body desires.
 She smiles faintly as we leave
 the artificial, dirty-pink fluorescence
 leaking into the barren parking lot. I take
 one last look at her before she disappears
 into her scarlet Volvo, traces of her green
 crocheted beanie blending into the forest
 background of conifer trees
 basking under late night whispers.
-J.P Legarte

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