I Am A Man, My Body Is A Woman
My body reveals its secrets to me
in grudging ways,
with little murmurs and signs,
each trying to get attention
without snapping its fingers in my face,
like faint, mysterious radio signals from (inner) outer space
that escape detection often,
small aches that ghost through my body and
the already over-populated radar of my consciousness,
as if keen on being missed,
rashes like miniature night bloomers on the
vast landscapes of my limbs and torso,
non-rashes, equally tiny, anonymous things,
that surface but don’t stay long enough
before sinking back into the realm of the forgotten,
eyelid twitching out a code decipherable by no man.
I receive frequent messages,
hinted, insinuated, encrypted.
My body has its own mind.
I’m trying to be a better reader.
Copyright © Bernard Chan | Year Posted 2018