A SUNDAY IN JULY

i woke up this morning with different hands
i just sat in bed for fifteen twenty minutes
studying the new length of my fingers
the new grit of my touch
i traced the lines up and down my palms
trying to decode whose lifeline i was looking at

i walked around the house with someone else’s bare feet
my calloused toes meandering the cold wood floors
i paced endlessly through the halls of my home
my home can i even call it my home
i try desperately to understand this new balance
i don’t recognize the air that enters my lungs
or the way my body sends it flowing to my foreign joints

i look into the mirror at a face that is not my own
crow’s feet squatting on these unknown power line eyes
i look so tired, so much older, when did i become this devil
this angel, this woman, this man, this child
this soul stuffed into some strange vessel
this ghost hand playing puppeteer

what of the things i was
what of the people i knew
the loves i’ve had
the love i have
what of the walk to the mailbox
what of the drive to work
what of the days spent churning and churning
what did i ever make

who’s voice am i speaking?
i shuffle through photo albums
and i start to feel the photos are not of me
what did i do
really what did i do and where am i
i close the blinds and crawl back into bed
i wrap myself in blankets
as if they were some magic cocoon
that works in reverse

some days we are someone else
and it can be such a brutal voiceless battle
to remember anything about the person
we’ve got so comfortable telling ourselves
that we are

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

7 thoughts on “A SUNDAY IN JULY”

  1. Often I feel similarly… like we’re all just a jumble of body-parts stuck together, blindly lumbering through corridors and streets.

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