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.