October 4, 2016
it is alive is an original poem by Mia Powell
the creator shouts,
my God. it is alive,
as the creature rises
to move and breathe,
there are no imperfections on satin skin.
the rips and tears and broken threads
of the long years and savored moments –
of wear and tear, of sleep and love –
are the threads i love the most,
are the threads that make skin human.
what qualifies as a mistake
on the manufacturer’s end,
and not mine?
what in the eye is my fault?
what came before my words
that gagged the pupil’s mouth?
what did i miss
before i built a pew for worship?
whoever plants the seeds for hair,
and whoever tends the garden after,
shall take my blue ribbons
from the county fair this and every year.
cosmically freckled cheeks
and the dimples of a lunar crater
lead me without a compass needed
to the smooth and tide-less river
of the lip curled over white shells.
strings knot together in muscle and bone
to create the jaw i have traced
a thousand times,
maybe more, but no less.
the body is a rebel of itself,
following no rules in the way it moves.
so whimsically unnatural
is the ebb and flow,
that i shan’t cease to follow
with my own strange sway in the breeze.
it is alive,
but i did not create it.