after they found a flock of hands
making shapes in your chest
after the shapes carried everything off
little has changed
the porcelain horizon
breaks up as it trembles
god is cold and afraid
and her hands pass on their shivering
so that everything vibrates into itself
but doesn’t find warmth
you come back, barefoot, your chest
open and teeming with hands
you said It is like trying to feel your blood
the way it runs into the vein walls
without knowing
you said the body
is the spatial architecture of the idea
that night your soul in my chest
a pale blue cylinder
trembling a great distance away
–
Mike Bagwell is a writer and software engineer out of Philadelphia. He received an MFA in poetry from Sarah Lawrence and has work published or forthcoming in HAD, BULL, Bodega Magazine, SOFTBLOW, Dark Sky Magazine, Whiskey Island, and others. Some have kindly nominated him for a Pushcart. He was the founding editor and designer of the currently deceased El Aleph Press. His work can be found at mikebagwell.me.
© 2023, Mike Bagwell
Halfway Down the Stairs 