replace i with my body/part
replace i with my body/
part
replace my body with parts
replace part with i,
part i from body, just parts.
if i was a body, it would be in two parts–
small head body over
tall slender body
replace i
place and re-place i
in this body,
in these parts.
i am a body.
i am a body.
i am a part.
i am a part of a body–
body in parts,
i in body, just parts
just parts
just i, just body,
just.
if i had a body it would
part the ocean with its tongue
and curl the lip of the shore around
itself like a sand blanket–
so many parts
all of them small
each one a rock
a grain
one part of a body–
body of land, ocean body–
what is this?
which part?
replace my body
with an ocean, place
my body in the ocean, re-
place my body here, a part
missing, one part
still ocean, all parts
ocean but one.
replace i with my body/part
under a torn line trailing to the corner. who wrote this?
who left this here? why?
i wonder if you remembered
to replace i with my body,
if part of you remembered
to replace i.
where is your body? is part
of it here, with this paper? is your
heart made of paper? can anyone
write on it? is it folded into
chambers, an atrium with doors opening
and closing into other parts?
where did you put i afterward?
did you use my body, or just part?
or both? do you write? do you have a body?
do you have a body that writes?
does i write?
replace i with my body.
place my body next to yours,
unfold me on your white sheets, one
body, two bodies, so many parts–
just i alone waiting to be replaced.
replace my body with another,
replace my body in part, replace i,
place body, body
next to my–
my body.
my body and i
feel like two different parts.
if my body and i were the same person
would i be able to sing?
could i play the piano? would i stop
moaning into the darkness about this body,
stop searching for the missing part, for my,
for i, for body, whole body–
my body.
if my body and i were the same person
would you still replace her?
would you carry her
in your open chest with her palms
against the walls of your ribcage,
your pulse a part of her? would you
replace your eyes with my body, with my eyes maybe–
do you want to see what i see?
do you know what it is
to replace?
to be replaced?
to be my body? do i?
this page is almost empty, full
of body/part.
what is the slash?
what is between body and part?
the slash is a silver tendon
holding muscle to bone, holding
flesh to self, body to i, parts
together becoming my body.
my body apart
slash body into parts,
body parting like the ocean,
everyone ready to drown, running,
expecting a sea of bodies–
(if they had asked the ocean to part it wouldn’t. god
likes to test his people, says replace your body
with one part, just love, and if you welcome death i will
keep you from it, will give you my body as yours, the flesh
of my child as bread, say sacrifice what you love before
i break the knife at the last second)
blade against tendon thin
as spider’s silk, all that you love
falling to parts, almost.
mirror in the sky, what is love?
love, are you the sky?
love, are you a mirror
where I can see my body, or replace
a part with you?
if my body were a mirror
you would never see me or yourself,
replace this mirror with a black sheet,
break glass into parts, place next to body,
replace i next to part.
body/part
body
slash
part
is the slash a linebreak?
is the slash a femur
bone, just one part?
replace i with my part,
my part–
just mine,
just i, just body,
just one part?–maybe
a knee–dot capping bone, small head
of i, one part of body, knee–
(left knee leaning bare against cornmeal for hours, pain like blades
but when i stand again there’s nothing but one red part
on the pale body of i and my father’s voice toneless
like one part of a shredded photograph, sweeping
the cornmeal back into the bag for the next time i speak
without enough fear, without thinking about my body
and what she goes through when i speak.)
i would replace my body with i
if i could, take
the static from her cornmeal-dusted knees, take
scissors from her cramped fingers
the day he makes her cut the lawn with them, take
all of her from the bathroom floor
in her nightgown, face sweaty, brain fading, replace
her with a part, leave
behind my baby tooth, no–
the missing grown-up tooth i inherited
from my father, this empty space
in my skeleton, part missing, my body
unfinished. my body
says she would replace i with her parts, would offer
her wrists to grab and break if it’s enough
to be seen, offer her nose
to smash in if the blood meant we could
re-place ourselves where the soil isn’t toxic–
(digging in the garden, i think i broke into a hive of red ants, their jaws
leaving cross-stitch patterns on the hands of my body, but i open
my eyes and there is only black dirt, pale fingers, and
the memory of you, one toxic part i can’t pry out,
try to replace)
with someone else’s voice saying want
or beautiful or
stay
but i still beg to be replaced.
please don’t love me.
please don’t leave.
please don’t love me, don’t
see my body, don’t
part me with your hands and replace
the flesh i’ve lost with your lips, don’t
come near this body, don’t
unfurl her parts on the grass in the park and lie down beside them.
i don’t want to feel what’s missing when you’re gone.
(god is a loving father
who places a knife in your hands, says
slice what you love into parts
because i gave you this body, i
gave you this i, you
owe me this, every part mine,
you owe me.)
jenny did it 