The Body, Kamilah Arteaga

Leland Quarterly | Fall 2021

Kamilah Arteaga

The body is a graveyard — Acollection of marbles and mementos, The texture of memories: Fresh, Cut,

Rubbed smooth by rain, Eroded by moss.

Each bone is carved and carpented into Stick-figure puppet shows, With finger joints as arms, And toes as thick-boned thighs — Aplay made in loving memoriam.

Areas of land upturned by fresh diggings, Grass clumped, healing, Patched together again, Whole, Not the same, though.

Each tendon is boiled, Bleached, And bland,

Torn-up movements are spun into Oscar-worthy performances, Adoll plopped into acceptable stitching.

The Body | Kamilah Arteaga

Rain flushes the pores of the granite Lain exposed,

Broken and breaking down, Naked to the elements.

Each piece is controlled by our own hand, Thoughts, emotions, machinations curated Unashamedly, Raw, Molded and morphed by our own mind.

For all its corrosion, nature inevitably springs growth back. When the body no longer holds life, Life holds the body. I wonder if the rain knows when to destroy, And when to create.

Do we know when to destroy, and how to create? Because once blood drips from vessels burst open, Once oxygen stops flowing, The charade is over — Organic machinery stripped of fuel.