Lysbeth Benkert

FORENSIC EXPLORATIONS

 

where did that come from?
it’s my morning mantra.

Climbing out of the shower
smoothing lotion over my skin, I
wince.
My fingers brush an ache that
wasn’t there yesterday—
             a new bruise on my thigh,
             a tender spot on my shin,
fuzzy photonegatives
of clumsy navigations
             a sharp corner,
             the long line of a desktop,
             a purple splotch—
             indeterminate

shadows that inscribe
accidents on a mortifying
palette.

Mornings are my reckoning.
in the bright lights of
my solitary strip search,
my fingers slide over
my limbs, confront my
irrefutable existence,
the fact that my
             body
                            takes
                                       up
                                                       space,
that it bumps into
things,
that it doesn’t always fit,
that I curse it
and clothe the evidence
with plausible deniability,
disavowing substance,
perjuring myself
in pursuit of grace.

 

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