Stilts
Knees
wish I had them
not a semblance
just aged and used
irresponsibly
no glue to bond
sorry
I walk on impossible stilts/short calves
that might give way
with a pivot or fancy turn
fall
bystanders think I trip when I do
wasn't watching or tipsy
well-meaning
considering history
not
no, bruise
my limbs decided not to work
and akin to grief
I wished
I dared to run after
my purpose
not even my physicians understand
with so much schooling
and opening of bones, blood, and ick
a carnal Pandoric knowledge
individual skeletons are so complex
like flowers
we're Fibonacci knots/not
not at all like a math
detonate
with tangible answers
so the doctor guesses/says, "manage."
oK dude
painkillers, shots, braced
set adrift
and silent to deal/addict
I live, I am a managed purpose
whoever lived for such a thing
but I do because there is nothing else
but a pumpkin
and sweet faces to see
I am woman
and above my knees,
I love and want FURIOUSLY,
hate and need impeccably...
but not much
for I
float invisible
like the ghost
I am
Below, I am a functional robot
broken at a certain metre
every step
is a different stanza
my fractured prose rendered due to weather
or a stroke of luck
chronic pain
you ask me what is my threshold?
on a scale of one to ten
ten childbirth
one, not being?
my gauge and words are too
on the nose
precise
for this Art of words
because I can not scream
and look upon the prize
my newborns' face, fully formed
being(s)
as the result of my efforts
my body: a gloriously gorey
3D printer
Pain births me instead now
I am literal and still
disturb and render
the tender sensibilities
of the status quo
conceptualism only ever had meaning
with source words identified from
their truth
not from the idea of their meaning
by saying this
I must pause
internal storm in a blurb
I am a danger, caution
I would destroy myself
with medicine
to stay alive and
instead raw dog
a world bigger than I
with no cure or reason
look upon the prize
I am ticking
my love,
my newborns' face
it's snowing
so bundle up
solo tengo
exploding
I am braced.
B
I'm glad to see you here
because I went to bed angry last night
and I heard the witch
knocking about,
I felt her sad eyes
burning my insides
for fuel,
I tasted her fingertips
as she choked
my dreams
for ink and anything
tanglible enough
to hammer out.
And seeing you here
truth in arcs
of blank on white
I realize
that in my sleep
I let you go
just in time
before I
pulled you across
and pounded you
into these words
we needed each other
for a moment
and with a pin pulled
together we were a ticking bomb
I was so fucking distracted.
Jacqueline Valencia is a Toronto-based writer. She is the author of various essays, short stories, and poetry books, including There Is No Escape Out of Time (Insomniac Press, 2016) and Lilith (Desert Pets Press, 2018). You can find her at jacquelinevalencia.ca.
