The body

This is my body
outspread before the world like canvas
people paint it as they want as they like
as the famous journals say
This is my body
where the wars take place, long debates grow
and grow like a fat, businesslike grin
this is how the decision is formulated – on the belly of indecision to the breasts of doubt to the
neck of silence and then on to the my head my head
where you hear the answer they long for shouted at your face and you could not
disagree
This is my body on the pedestal, hated and loved, for wrong reasons
This is my body that loves and hates, this is me inside the body
but the brush has been whipped from my fingers and my mouth is glued with somebody else’s paint
the canvas is somewhat smaller, shrunk and I am cold
This is my body but should I use the word my
anymore?
This is a body but can I even say the word body, just because?
(always but)
I should keep my voice inside my throat, like a bud,
I should keep it as a growing bun in the oven
Oh, in this oven I breathe in the smell of amazement
and the burnt cake and the burnt throat
from vomiting, vomiting
in this pregnant silence, full of sharp edges and frozen sighs
in this happy house I keep my head down
This is a body that by a miracle can be divided
each nine months and shared amongst exasperated society
just like bread was shared by Jesus and his anointed voice
smelling of seriousness and wisdom and sex
each nine months this body is multiplied and shared
amongst voracious society
just like each cell must live in a cell, your body’s a nun in a red habit
you’re spitting blood but the teeth form a smile between chattering
between looking into your hands at your hunched-up
past, hiding cupboard shadows
distant eyes staring from the dirty sink
choked cries, calls, laughs underneath the bathroom lamp
past these walls you keep your head down
you’re our happy house, freshly painted

Maria Juchniewicz is an English philology student currently living in Warsaw, Poland. She is in love with literature, translations, rock'n'roll, and cats.