NEW! Poem by Amish Trivedi

Amish Trivedi

BODY MAP SYMPOSIUM

If we have a plan, it’s 

unbecoming: we could

do nothing and let things 

happen to us, but that

just isn’t how we roll. Places 

we fly over have cities

and culture and cracked 

sidewalks too. Lines

that form the right side 

of your face want to

take me away. Each inch 

is covered in

creases and I think
the room wants to sleep

with you. My relationship 

to my body

has changed and we’re

here to discuss exchanging

faces and making arbitrary 

lines and separating

families with borders. This is 

my story of the generations

and how they collapsed 

and came back stronger

than ever. My version 

carries with it a stigma

and an American flag 

traced on your

body from the legs
to your collarbones. I

know tattoos which create 

the most pain, and I

want you to become 

them: a graft of old

skin, inked, and 

replaced; remnants

of a letter 

never sent; and

covered marks 

exposed. Where our

organs begin is a 

story to be told

in flightless language, 

grounded and

menstruated. They 

expect us to come

running when lights 

burn brightly or

ends of words turn 

in meaningless

symbols and repercussions 

of other faults. We push

to know how, but 

only when connected

in series does darkness 

get purged and then

an open fear is held. With 

teeth marks drawing blood,

only lust can penetrate 

doubt. I know places

that force your head back 

and words that

make you sing, but 

unfortunately, wind

has come in and 

gotten us lost. I’ve got

the whole thing down 

to numbers, but a chart

would be helpful. Figures 

one through nine

could lead us into 

the right species but

my orientation is spread
and bursting. I can meet you

where you tell me, but I 

don’t know the way there

by divine causality. Dismemberment 

is not the side-effect

of any drug I am
aware of, though a response

to an externality
it may be. I have learned

to think in one hundred 

word bursts and

keep myself to one 

thousand and eight words

per day to keep from 

repeating sounds and phrases

I know. I don’t know if 

you’re a boy or a girl, or

sometimes nothing
at all, but any pointing

could be helpful. As long 

as I can hear you

to know where you are, I 

am happy, though

I’d prefer to see 

or taste. I know I

should have kissed you 

but did you have to

tell me that when you 

were putting your

break up speech 

together? Every day

has grown from that spot 

in my lungs and I

cannot suture new 

feelings together or

tell them which way to spread 

because I’m just as nowhere

to be found. Wanting 

to believe each thrust

will be the last, we 

speak only in words

which cannot be seen. I’ll 

leave you part of my nails

in my will, though I 

plan to use them

to scratch my way 

out. I will crawl

in to find where you 

go, but I know I

can come back whenever 

I want. As your

breath is caught
in my mouth, another

desire washes back 

over my central

arteries: to feel 

unwanted and

forgotten primes 

my blood for

exaltation. My next 

performance will be

“The Abstract,” a 

novel in seventeen

words, but on 

nine hundred and

fourteen pages. I want to 

pull my legs up

to my heart and 

burn them

all at once. We could
require immediate infiltration

if our arms were to 

end up behind us

in a fire or a 

mélange of different

noises. If lies go 

too deep, we can

consume them and 

make them a part

of our lineage. I have 

a lingering desire

to be placed on a 

somewhere-bound

bullet but to force it 

back into stasis is a

trouble worth waking 

up to. I cannot complete

my own words 

without seeing

which you want to 

use first, a decision

taken too hard to 

remain uncaring

about. I don’t 

want to steal your

lips, just lease them 

for my revolution, as

private as it 

might be. When

I press my flesh to yours, 

I hear tiny music escaping

and ceasing to form 

notes, much less a

sonic argument. These are 

supplemental words to a

love poem that was written 

in a bloody bathtub over-

looking language as a 

device: how could I

be the last to know? For those 

who look to the sky

hoping for a better figment 

of this imagined prophylaxis,

I want to hand you my 

non-vital organs in the

hopes you’ll find some new 

destruction for them. As my

anemia leads me, so does my 

bile. I want to discover

a reverberation to sink into and 

become part of its silicate. I

refuse to accept that this is

the last memorized passage that will 

make its way into our canon, but

only rejected vowel sounds 

will please our ears, wherever

we might find them.