bad road

“my body is 40 miles of bad road”- working class krip saying

you mean well, but

when I say I hurt when I say some part of

my body hurts and you say oh, did you do something?

I hear what did you do? As is, it's your fault,

there's cause and effect and there's a simple

story, and if a + b = c we can fix it

fast.

But there's no simple story in this body.

She falls apart whenever she feels like it,

which is often. She doesn't feel like going to

work or up and down three flights of stairs, and she'll tell you all about it.

She can smell the weather.

She got a lot of stories

and just like her mama did at slam church two decades ago,

she spits them out my kneecap like a gun with chaotic

yet accurate aim.

She is forty miles of perfect bad road

all bumps and potholes that could take out your wheel.

You gotta know how to drive it.

You gotta not be too worried about breaking your car

(because she's already broke too)

I mean, I could tell you, everything happened! I could tell you my mama

molested me, I could tell you hers did too,

I could tell you we had to walk a long long way and get on a boat,

I could tell you I moved to brooklyn for love but there's a lot of stairs here too

I could read you the particulate matter of the air, that they're spraying for pesticides today

that I ran out of the fish oil that greases my knee into smoothing,

and I don't know if the CVS sells it here

- but does anyone want to hear all that?

The staying chant

the recitation

of everything that's happening in my body, and their body,

and the park's body, and on the subway huffing diesel and cigarettes

When you say it's just pain for no reason all the time, fibro, right?

I say, close but no cigar!

I say I intimate with pain tides

This ground not steady! Why would it be?

As soon as I figure it out she flips me the bird

shapeshift hip transforms and says fuck you, you figure it out

Sometimes the place where my mama threw me into the wall

at three and broke my sacrum talks to me,

locks all my earth into cement.

Some days I don't know what day it is.

Some days my ass leaks tidal marsh, briny river

Some times everything everything

everything every thing

hurts

like a church bell

like a call to prayer

and it calls me to pray

this pain

breathing into any place that doesn't hurt

some of which only exists in my revolutionary imagination.

Sometimes you have to talk quiet.

Sometimes I can't talk at all.

Of course you don't believe that, but I feel the need to declare:

my life is worth living anyway

I love every jounce on this bad, bad

underfunded budget cut frost heave road

not everyone's car can make it down;

you gotta know

how to drive it

I love every car that just gave up in the mountain pass

every hubcap that fell off

every- yes- road not on any map

every rock and resisting

every reason this happened

every reason this body

is reason enough

for being.

Source: Tonguebreaker (Arsenal Pulp Press, 2019)

Disability Poetics