From Inside My Body
By A.T. Halaby
Something like. The night
Was still happening and.
The morning wasn’t ready. Like
Language’s suggestion (it’s struggling, I
Mean, really, it’s in trouble)
Is in its deal with my mind.
To tell me what I want to hear.
Thoughts don’t tire out, they
Don’t have bodies. What I must
Know. What I already—
What all this looks like inside here.
My body is clay
And warmth is a sculptor’s hands
After other hands and
Hearts after one another.
The sun is torture.
And this morning—like most beginnings—
With my fingers bent around every cup
Every hot stovetop every
Window and its glass glaring
My arms are giving away their need. Like
They are right now. Like
There isn’t a whole lot I’m missing
Out on if, in my ability to reach
What I want to know, what I must act on,
What I am only thinking about
Won’t do me good to—
I thought, if I climbed out
The window and bent my neck and chest
Over the gutters, changing my heart’s flow,
My body, its heat pouring from the
Mouth of a watering can. It’s
My heart moving in all directions.