The Earth Suit
MICHAEL JAMES MARTIN
I was born in a cummerbund
made of placenta stitched by a god’s needle
with embryonic polyblend—I began
how all suits end, as a button waiting for
uncaught reflections. A macrobit’s attribute
given a half fraction’s thought
though the button makes the whole suit
reconnect itself to itself. And without it comes to mind
Joni Mitchell’s Yellow Cab. I entered
this ballroom blinded by light,
throatful of fluid,
body pulsated by audio-cracks, worried
years later about the state of my being beneath
the flesh of this earth suit. This aged rental
this moth’d thing’s left lapel bulges
a serious symmetrical error
you can retailor
but not fix. Every cup I drink from is spiked
to recess depression’s impress. I don’t always feel well dressed.
keep tugging at orphan strands,
methodically undoing organic material
some would call atom central. Quark express.
I want to be unfriezed, undone, undressed,
left with nothing except my true flesh: condensed energy
pocketed into an already-made outfit of nebulas.
Michael James Martin writes in English but wishes to expand. Previous work appears or is forthcoming in BlazeVOX, Mythium Literary Journal, and The Benefactor Magazine. His manuscript-in-progress is titled juggling chainsaws.