We’re all from immigrant fathers
I’ve been busy I must admit
Performing an autopsy on my shadow
It’s a tedious tumbling of self with not-self
And I’ve come to the conclusion
That it might never be finished
That I might have to live this skin
Of bone-flower-elegy of psyche
I’ve been too busy trying to be grateful
Moon stiches and a refugee of the sun
My body is slowly collecting lightning
And sound from this dimension
Like a magnet for the magical realism
I’ve started to remember dreams for
Maybe the first time in my life
With a magical aspect of eroticism
From which I believed myself immune
There is a serene aspect to feeling abnormal
A little illegal, a little uncouth
We were all bohemians in our own minds
Our conscience filled with pink juxtaposing
The encounters of thumb with mouth
Nipple with chest, facial hair with the mirror.
I love this one, Wuji!
Well, I’m working toward an understanding of the self you encounter/experience, as i re-re-reead, but that’s okay letting your poem slow me down to think. The title strikes me personally. My mother, as well. Cheers.
Yes it’s true, poetry can be our mirror. I’m not too good at re-reading or re-editing it, for me it’s more spontaneous I guess.