by Emma Bolden
Pity the scalpel its sordid work, the taste
of pennies pressed against its silver
of a tongue. Pity the tongue its hinge
and flap. Pity the flaps of flesh
which enclose us, which open
to let in: the lips, the tongue and meal;
the door between two legs. Pity
the legs which know only walking,
which know only still. Pity the still
sore ghosts of impact, their purple
arguments against touch. Pity
the touched and the untouched.
Pity the body tired of being
untired. Pity the body, its urge, its work.
Emma Bolden’s work has appeared in journals such as Prairie Schooner, the Indiana Review, the Greensboro Review, Redivider, Copper Nickel, Feminist Studies, The Journal, Guernica, and on Linebreak.org. She is also the author of three chapbooks of poetry: How to Recognize a Lady, published as part of Edge by Edge, the third in Toadlily Press’ Quartet Series; The Mariner’s Wife, published by Finishing Line Press; and The Sad Epistles, published by Dancing Girl Press. She is currently an assistant professor of creative writing at Georgia Southern University and blogs at A Century of Nerve (emmabolden.com).