by Logan February
You know, I was a muse once,
but let’s not begin with history.
Or anatomy, in fact.
These organs have been bartered
endlessly, going from hand to hand
to mouth and lingering between teeth--
this body, broken more times than the bone
that resides within, each time
a different person’s communion.
I am the shriveled hallelujah
that never leaves the mouth.
Something blessed, a kiss goodbye
with lips the color of a fresh bruising.
No, let’s not start here. Not with anatomy.
The true beginning is with language.
I am common noun, boy, obsessed
with accumulating adjectives
that translate to sad.
I am lost somewhere in the translation.
My heart is a place with no native tongue.
Look at that, we’re back again at anatomy.
My body begs to be known. Charted.
Let’s try geography because I need
to escape. I am badlands, red dust, war-torn.
I am torn. I am torn. It comes back to the body,
cerebral shrine with no goddess. An emptiness.
I am obsessed with not existing in flesh
because two shades of smoke collided
and gave birth to me, this nameless thing.
All body and no soul— a seething brilliance.
No, let’s not begin here.
No, let’s not begin with the body.
No, let’s not begin at all.
Logan February is a happy-ish Nigerian owl who likes pizza & typewriters. He is Co-Editor-In-Chief of The Ellis Review. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Tinderbox, Wildness, Glass, Bateau, and more. He is author of How to Cook a Ghost (Glass Poetry Press 2017) & Painted Blue with Saltwater (Indolent Books 2018). Say hello on Instagram & Twitter @loganfebruary.