The Parts of Me
My right hand
Should have been an artist.
She is slower than
She wants to be,
And her fingers get nervous
When she isn't gripping a pen.
She could
Have learned to animate
Or make caricatures
Or paint skylines.
My fingertips type well,
But are not affluent
In all the literature
They wish to create.
My fingertips are story tellers
And question askers:
Writers.
Though,
I regret
Not giving them
Enough training or freedom
To create.
My shoulders
Crave swinging.
They were athletes once -
And I could twist and turn and serve.
I always felt it in my shoulders and back -
How strong they were on court.
My legs were sometimes excited,
But never as invested
As the upper body.
Perhaps that's why my hips ache now.
My legs did, however,
Always wish to dance.
I never bothered enough with them.
They always felt too large or clumsy
To kick, twirl, leap, or split.
My legs may not be dancers,
But they are
A close couple.
They mirror each other, becoming
Nervous dreamers,
Shy but thoughtful,
Rarely still
And always wishing.
My lower back
Would be the studious one.
He works so hard
To make me hold up my head
And not slump
And encourages my knees
To help him lift my burdens.
He thinks ahead
To avoid future pains.
He is unwaveringly
Forgiving and insightful.
My head is an astronaut.
She sees stars
And believes herself among them,
Full of fire and comforted
By unending spacious quiet.
She can daydream
About anything,
Especially the unknown and impossible.
She is more comforted
By the foreign exploration
Than by the daily routine.
My stomach
Used to be the swimmer;
The diver;
The snorkeling, hopeful fish-watcher.
Then he grew up.
He found out my head
Had swimmers ear,
And never let go of his grudge.
He has always feared exposure,
But these days,
The fear is dependent upon the crowd.
He is so vulnerable,
But his bravery
Makes some appearances.
Lastly,
We will speak of my heart.
I have so many pieces,
But this is the one
I wish more people were curious about.
The left ventricle
Is fillled with solemn respect;
She is my priestess.
She glues my faith back together
Every time I destroy it.
The left atrium
Is my executioner and mercenary.
They remove threats
And enemies
From my most vulnerable pieces.
The right atrium
Is my traveler.
He is a nomad
And a friend to the earth,
Though I rarely
Respect his wishes.
He is the most forgiving piece of all.
I imagine
That the astronaut loves him most of all.
Finally, the left atrium:
The secret-filled
Actor:
A pretender and interpreter.
When I panic,
They have the script
And become who I need them to be.
It's a defense mechanism
And often a way to entertain.
They probably love me the most,
I hope.
They know
I try to put everything together
Logically.
This part covers for the broken ones.
They work the hardest, I suppose.
The others bits
Are just the gears.
They are the fans and fluff and wires
That keep me going.
How beautiful it can be
To be an odd machine.
- Shae Saltgrave
