STRETCH MARKS
by Christos Kalli
Depending on the light. Frescoed on my skin or
pulled apart by hands. How to tell when
even my eyes have been saran-wrapped.
This not-place. This place boats seek
to find the lost boats that sought this place.
The fog lifts. Something between bridge
and gorge. Something separating man.
And god. Their fingers. How they reach for
the celery. The celery I have never reached
for. Now depending on where and how I stand.
I carry a mouthpiece of the past. Mouthpiece
of the cushioned sofa. Mouthpiece of my fat
and unfathomable ass. And depending
on who is counting. The calories are having
the time of their lives. Or halving my belly
into two. The grapefruit is turning blue.
Bluer than the sprinkles on the donut.
Bluer than the way everything looks. From
the middle of the hole. Or the eye of the storm.
Or the cave inside the refrigerator.
Wherever here is. Something in it
growls and grows hungry for,
and pregnant with, a life.