same body, somebody - Crista Fusaro

same body, somebody

by Crista Fusaro

once

a body was a body was a body was

a body—what it had always been,

just swollen with another body.

it was your body and mine.

September (month nine)

i hear the pages of the book

you are reading—your latest

romance. the heroine’s name

is in your head, on your tongue, in your head, on your

Cassiopeia / Kασσιοπεία

August (month eight)

i stop moving. you stop

feeling me. your feet are

swollen with the pain of

not knowing and i force

you to know, you have to know, and so you waddle to the doctor every friday at seven a.m.

before work because you were still working

before work because you thought i was dead

(maybe it was the one who once was who forced you)

(maybe kicking was knowing i was still inside you)

(maybe you would force me to come out)

is this your body or mine?

is this my body or yours?

July (month seven)

the heat pushes you to

your breaking point. it

was the hottest summer. my feet were so swollen and big and they kept getting bigger and i felt like half of myself.

but how could you be half when you were two?

this body. if only you could see what this body was twenty-one years ago. before the second one gave way to seventy-two pounds. i was skinny and lean and lines did not line this body.

this body was pristine.

please, stop.

your body was my body and now i have this body.

my body could have only been made through you.