EVERY GEN Z POEM IS ABOUT THE BODY
so I lay bare on the table, performing autopsy
on myself, in search of a verse—some sweet
poetry wetting my lungs. For I do not carry a
body intricate enough for tapestry, one with
joy flooding its veins like rivulets of wine. Do
you know what it is to wear the wind as colour?
I walk into a room & I become camouflage—my
skin, more turpentine than melanin. Anatomy says,
the body is up to sixty percent water. I must
have been too transparent for flesh—what magic,
the fish becomes the entire aquarium. I sprawl
on the table, performing autopsy on myself; my
chest, a dancehall of red neon, the tendons
shifting, catching every pulse. Shame, the lover
who swore I had tendrils for heart. I dissect clean
& do not find a garden. O spare me today, the
sugar of language. See how love turns blood to
rosewater, & I am the vessel of this modernist
miracle. There is no flowering stretching through
my ribs. My ghost hands fold in for a poem &
they gather nothing. My mother says when there
is nothing, pray. So I whittle my bones into a
church & I offer a hymn pouring out of my
trachea. Like holy water, it fills the cathedral.
I am floating & a scalpel kisses my lips.
on myself, in search of a verse—some sweet
poetry wetting my lungs. For I do not carry a
body intricate enough for tapestry, one with
joy flooding its veins like rivulets of wine. Do
you know what it is to wear the wind as colour?
I walk into a room & I become camouflage—my
skin, more turpentine than melanin. Anatomy says,
the body is up to sixty percent water. I must
have been too transparent for flesh—what magic,
the fish becomes the entire aquarium. I sprawl
on the table, performing autopsy on myself; my
chest, a dancehall of red neon, the tendons
shifting, catching every pulse. Shame, the lover
who swore I had tendrils for heart. I dissect clean
& do not find a garden. O spare me today, the
sugar of language. See how love turns blood to
rosewater, & I am the vessel of this modernist
miracle. There is no flowering stretching through
my ribs. My ghost hands fold in for a poem &
they gather nothing. My mother says when there
is nothing, pray. So I whittle my bones into a
church & I offer a hymn pouring out of my
trachea. Like holy water, it fills the cathedral.
I am floating & a scalpel kisses my lips.
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BIO:
Samuel A. Adeyemi is a young writer from Nigeria. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Palette Poetry, Frontier Poetry, 580 Split, Leavings Lit Mag, Kissing Dynamite, The Shore, Jalada and elsewhere. When he is not writing, he enjoys watching anime and listening to a variety of music. You may reach him on Twitter and Instagram @samuelpoetry
Samuel A. Adeyemi is a young writer from Nigeria. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Palette Poetry, Frontier Poetry, 580 Split, Leavings Lit Mag, Kissing Dynamite, The Shore, Jalada and elsewhere. When he is not writing, he enjoys watching anime and listening to a variety of music. You may reach him on Twitter and Instagram @samuelpoetry
