curro, currere, cucurri, cursus.
walking away is as helpful
as putting a dime into
a poor man's hand.
and without your eyes on him,
the poor man is licking LIBERTY
raised next to the face of a paraplegic,
palming his coldness, scratch at each
of the one hundred-eighteen ridges on his coin.
you might have thought,
“poor man, bless his soul” had you stood
for his reaction.
it was like stirring formula
when you could have given
baby your breast,
believing that “fortified”
somehow makes a glorified mother.
on bare nipple skin:
the irritation down your spine
was sign of an intruder
sucking away your privacy.
dinner often remained untouched,
and moments later you would
stretch your limbs out on the porch
to run is to care.
curo, curare, curavi, curatus.
Donald Miller Translation
The human body
is one of perfection, with its long limbs and
hair most unlike barbed wires and akin to the
blackness of night with softness of
smooth skin warm and glowing as it
essentially recreates itself
in a transformation, the body slowly
undergoes its metamorphosis without the cocoon
the chrysalis cracks open from inside the body
every six months
the body is a butterfly for a day
flapping its silky monarch wings to bare air
throwing orange and black illustrations
into sugar-white, sugar-smooth sky.
Nearly every cell of hair and skin and bone dies
as does any living thing:
the hearts of flower shriveling against winter wind,
the fall and crisp deadness of autumn leaves,
summer sunsets cut shorter day by day
and another is directed to its former place
in an exile of the old, placing the new
into places worn down
puzzle pieces that do not fit
but still create a kaleidoscope
every angle a different image:
you are not who you were last February.
Dawn Angelicca Barcelona is a sophomore at
Rutgers University majoring in English with a concentration in
Creative Writing. She hopes to pursue an MFA in Poetry after
graduation and teach poetry workshops to at-risk adolescents in