The Shirt

      The fetus in me
      grows, glows knowingly,
      nuzzles its nodes, the two
      burnt-out bulbs that gave it a start.
5     Now, nurtured like a shirt
      in the wash, alphabets appear in its stew.
      The mix is as warm
      as tepid soup.
      The letters spin like dials, like stars
10    in the stubbed-out substance
      as consoling as bad milk.
      But look at the baby, its bald eye,
      the thin, angelic webs
      reaching like fingers to grow it shut;
15    my eyelids flutter like a shocked heart.
      The baby basks in its Mediterranean,
      sulking hub of suds,
      it is new, new, new!
      It wears its body like a shirt,
20    unafraid of nails,
      of lies, of hates,
      of regrets downed with the sugarless coffee.
      The shirt doesn't flinch
      from the hammer that batters
25    firetongs that pinch the skin,
      love harrumphing with its daggers in,
      plain as the mail on the table,
      plain as the no-nose on the lump of its face,
      the club of its skull
30    milky as an escaped gasp.
      The shirt simply hangs,
      waiting to be put on, like a night-club crowd,
      waiting to be touched
      like scissors, waiting for the worst
35    to enter it, like a man, to make a sail
      sailing somewhere, to some purpose perhaps
      to fill it with winds like hands
      burdened with an excess of gifts,
      waiting for some breath to stretch it
40    like a manfully handled canvas
      to take it into the hands of its mouth
      and make it wake up
      and shudder like a lung.
      The shirt must do something inside of myself!
45    The shirt is there, alive in its hamper,
      its buttonholes waiting for hooks
      to pull the buttons through like flowers
      and hold itself shut.
      The shirt is there, cautious
50    (you'd better believe it)
      suspended in its char
      of suds, hanging like a kite
      in the black sky of my uterus.
      My sky of warm liquids and tepid laughter,
55    hanging, hanging,
      by its little miracle string,
      ready to whoosh down and pull me through myself
      like a turtle entirely reversed.
      But for now the shirt,
60    limp on its elephant of skeleton
      still reels and flutters
      like a clasped flag from its knot of hand.

 

From the collection "Hymns"

Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]

More information available on gregglory.com.