Donna Vorreyer

SEDIMENTARY

After the crashes, bikes and bodies careeening,
helmets tested against rocks and tree stumps, limbs
both plant and human twisted to unnatural angles,
I have such gratitude for this body. Though I so often
hate it, its strength is layered, padded against accident.
Bones intact, the flesh tenders, purpled moons and
brackish slashes, even a swoop of bruise above
my husband’s right eye like an aubergine brushstroke.
The damage darkens, whole galaxies aswirl on torsos
and thighs. Beside the trails, the balsam bog remains
intact, blooms its artifice. Green leaves gather in cushions
that look like soft moss but are hard to the touch,
alive and easily harmed. They grow upon themselves,
layer and after layer, building on what came before.
Their bright green says look at me. Their exterior says
do not touch. Their fragile armor means the inside is tender.
Humans are so tender on the inside, deceptively
fragile in their need crying do not touch, rough
exteriors clothed in bright colors begging to be
noticed. Like sedimentary rocks, we grow memory
upon memory, layer by layer, easily harmed though
hard to the touch. We carry ourselves along the trails,
our calves and thighs galaxies of aubergine and bruise.
We swoop our arms and legs, slash brackish waters
under a purple moon, our tender flesh over our bones,
layer upon layer, accidents of hate and gratitude,
twisting ourselves unnaturally, limbs careening,
like bodies do, toward the next crash.

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