Self-Portrait as Root
My full beauty lies beneath sight,
spread below in dark anchorage,
the heft of a life lived in the
underside, thriving in cause and
bound to earth. What is love if not
the slow sip of nutrients rising? I
grip and expand, maintain and
absorb, securing place with
steadiness. From me, you grow.
Follow this thought and return
to its seed near the surface. I am
faith, unhindered. Light, reversed.
Self-Portrait as Hole Self-Portrait as Hole
That which I contain
breeds space, confined within
borders and the logic of separation.
Or, looking closer you see
only losses reinforced at the edges,
some sharp, others polished smooth
as broken glass washed ashore,
still transparent yet altered. Is filling
the answer? Is correction,
repair? Standing alone, I am emptiness
incarnate. Nothing. I say again: Nothing.
Self-Portrait as Bowel Movement
In hospitals, my status increases
with absence, colors every
passing day's queries: have
you had a BM, they ask.
And often. This is of course
no mystery. I am Legion. I
contain multitudes, am arbiter
and symbol and vessel of messages
of good faith and lost hope, offering
myself for the common good,
selflessly, never pretending to be
what I am not. You look forward
to my visits, miss me when I'm
gone, wonder when I'll return.
Admit it: you love me.
