Illness settles over me like buildersí dust.
For years, I shaped the sofa to my body.
For years, it shaped my body to a sofa
where I scroll, ordering plus-size dresses.
I scroll, giving orders to plus-size dresses
to make me twirl and sashay, lithe again.
To make me twirl and sashay, live again,
they cut neat slits in flesh and flayed my innards.
Through such neat slits, they flayed my innards and sewed
my skin to hide the bleeding raw tissue.
My skin hides the bleeding raw tissue
where bloody cells abound, swelling like fat.
Swollen and fat, in my bloody cell, I bound.
My secret prison dances stir up dust.
Thanks to napowrimo.net for their prompt to write a poem using repetition and for introducing me to Jericho Brown's duplex form. In this wonderful article on Poetry Foundation, he explains the form's origin and its exact rules, and gives multiple examples. For anyone who knows me: please don't be alarmed; my endometriosis continues to be more-or-less under control. I just have some kind of cold or flu, but being back on the sofa brings back some severe memories.
See the new NaPoWriMo poems as they pop up, complete with pics of the handwritten drafts, natter to me, and help me with titles for them, via whatever social media you call home:
All my poems on this site are now #FreeForPoets to play with, to write hybrid forms such as glosas, coupling poems, golden shovels, acrostics, centos, and erasures. Full permissions here: #FreeForPoets.