Gabriel Pulido
My thighs are spread and punctured.
A constellation of cherry hues,
I did not know I can produce.
Slathered.
This stomach, a map.
I am afraid to trace the destination.
I have earned new creases
across places where flesh
was never meant to mark.
There is a cadaver somewhere
in Hershey Medical Center
that once belonged to me.
In a steel gurney,
the attending is shaking it off
and propping it up for lecture.
I am all for education
But at what point does body become book?
My wings are broken,
not my first crash landing.
Mariah Carey’s
Fly Like A Bird
is playing the background.
I know how to transcend.
This ain’t rehearsal.
It is my second and third act.
I have found my pen, again.
And I am soaring, now.