that these bodies have memory,
which is the type of thing
people tend to say in poems.
Mine barely remembers
how to do the Macarena.
But my dog (bless him)
has no memory
but his body’s memory
of the forest.
And just this past week
my son’s body remembered
how to roll over, back
to tummy, and next I hope
the reverse.
Perhaps the body is a temple
dedicated to the earth
that it has disfigured.
Perhaps forgetting is a gift,
bitter chocolate always arriving.
Perhaps my pantry is empty.
Perhaps my pantry is full.
---
Jesse Miksic is a graphic designer and writer living in the suburbs of Philadelphia. He spends his life writing poetry, ruminating over philosophy and pop culture, and having adventures with his endlessly patient wife, two awesome children, and hyperactive dog. Recent placements include Pink Plastic House, Moist Poetry, Selcouth Station Press, and Hearth & Coffin. His work and musings can be found at @miksimum on Twitter and Instagram, or www.miksimum.com
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