Disassembly

Disassembly

The problem is not that boys like to take things apart—

it’s that they don’t use all the pieces.

I submitted to the straight edge and found my spine was missing.

I floated above wasps making love to the air.

The sound had no meaning, the moments were ordinary

before we began eating the bread in our hands meant to feed the dawn.

In the words, I named all my pieces—in the words, I fell in a hole,

salivating like a dog at the whistle

and sweating out in painful ecstasy the pulling of me apart.

The fulcrum was the ache in my gripping fist.

Tongues of fire around each wrist cast no light on the dark waters.

The problem is not that I am in pieces—

it’s that I learned to love all of them.

I dreamed I got two variegated carnations, a word,

and an envelope with everything I wanted inside.

When given a box, boys will pick and choose what to play with

and leave the rest like scattered seeds that will never grow.

May 2014


Poem copyright Kirsten Hollingsworth. May not be copied or posted without permission.
Photo credit: Female Robot by Caroline Davis2010 CC BY Cropped from original