Construction Literary Magazine

Fall 2019

Poses; Breaks in My Sacrum

Poses; Breaks in My Sacrum
Photograph via Flickr by Hamed Masoumi

The sculptor decides
how love stands. Each day,
she draws

gestures from memory
of people in poses.
Her long fingers lift

tiny wax arms
like branches.
She modifies each posture,

melting corners
to foot arch and backbend,
to spectrums

of the weeping women
she’d counseled.
She still remembers,

and covers their eyes,
renders each torso as beautiful,
not fallen.

With slim flame
and a spoon,
she builds each a platform,

sets position and limit.
She aligns to the length
of her inhales,

and studies the back
of each figure. What she casts
are aspects left over

and light
through the window.
From improbable air

she finds
form to stretch.
Time bends

into an hour,
an hour, a head, and a self.

Breaks in My Sacrum

I continued to ignore the thin line
until it began to condense.
On the x-ray — strange leaves.

A physical therapist presses
my fingertips to the mat, tells me
to lap at the air with my rising gesture.

I know she is not satisfied
with my glyphed bending.
My knees have edged,

and there is a slight hunch in the usual
fault lines. I cannot rise
nor turn — a body’s reducible logic.

This trapped structure —
failing. In the vertiginous posture,
my sacrum skids forward.