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a poem by NW Hall

How I Feel About My Time Here

When I lay inside my broken window dying,
I didn't know my stomach ascended into my chest.
I think I lost my voice indefinitely after that incident.

I wish this poem was supple enough to lift a red car off of me.
I wish this poem was bereft enough to leave me noisy sorrows
scraping often in my sleeping heart so someone might hear them.
I wish this poem was so greedy it took all of my worry about money,
love, and fate. Instead: this poem groans like swollen metal in the sun.

I never thought this verse would be how I was going to live.
Silly me for presuming a busted diaphragm & a collapsed lung
were the closing, rib splitting heaves in my derivative last laugh.

A ladder of shining staple marks rise to the edge of my abdomen.
Satyr, hear my pleading, I have ruptured a little spot inside my gut!

It feels just like the time that car punched my spine out of alignment
so swiftly I could not stop could not stop telling anyone who'd listen

how much my sides hurt, my sides hurt.

© by NW Hall
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #30 ~ April 2014