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This Body Its Charges

by Carolyn Ferrucci


A whole warm room to discuss our
awareness, mine was April, the thrill of the word
in my mouth. The birth ward holds troughs of blood and howling
people talking about vacation time. The new
born is pure decision. I was born
surface tension, torque, lush bleak childhood.

This is a temporary I that doesn’t know a thing.
I am counting, childlike, being born like
building pus in the square dirt allotted
for a tree not there, she wants
to do something probably impossible, but
these two are definitely in the early stages of it.
Of what of love. If I name
one thing I know, will
you stay. You name one thing
we don’t know and we live.

I say please and please is a city.
Please is a word I woke up
with under my tongue under
a morning so gray I didn’t know
the time. It is time
when the astonishical Pink buds
the peach tree into petal, time when I
pick up a stick and try to express how I really feel.

But speech came later, on the edge
of fall, when a puddle Unperfectly reflects a municipal building lit up with no one
inside, it’s impossible to sustain a single self.

Yes! Leaves astound your hair now
Nonononono sounds a bird, forgiveness and
promise bound me, and
then in the snow a reminder of our
humanity walks on, into our January room,
where I sear a bright tuna into gray,
where I add acid, feel my body despite myself.




Carolyn Ferucci bio.