The Animal I Keep in the Cage of My Bones
by Leah Falk For the body Alan Turing, age 16 is a machine, sharing its eyes with the horse and the cinemascope, blood with the gas engine, fountain pen. What have I in common with other living things? The moment a dinosaur’s jaw cracked in two — one half snapping birdlike, the other ground to powder. We have that. We have the objects in this room where a billion years have come and laid down on the tile, seeping out the screen door and down the garden drain. This parlor: dresser scarf — ashtray — good light for reading — easy chairs with ribbing. Moonstone bust of a mother, a child rising out of her, mountain from slip-strike. Although it hurts me, out of a living line, out of stone or meat, I choose myself again, again that is one of me , here where my carriage grew vertical, where my fists forgot the heavy ground. But your body, wedge, remembered. Cartridge leaking...