THE CITY IS A BODY BROKEN by Natalie Scenters-Zapico
Thursday, 14 November 2013
Most days, the light falls so thick
I don’t know what it is to be
without it. At night we lie
in bed away from each other,
the moon so bright it is a scrim
for the sun. When clouds come,
monsoons flood freeways, trap
old tires against barbed wire.
Your body, a victim of erosion,
turns bone. I jump from our chainlink
bridge and only break a foot.
Which of us has become
the natural disaster? In bed, I blame
the fever, the sores that line my mouth.
But it’s my foot that’s swollen. I wrap
it in custom’s forms. Will I ever know
where you hide my money, or
the mountains where I hide your guns?
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