By Woody Woodger
Can I tell you a dirty secret
about men? Our hearts and lungs
were all forged in the same kiln
run by some angel in a hairnet.
God gets a basket of us every hour
filled to the brim. It’s always a tight
fit—a hose splits in winter—our plastic
carcasses strewn across his work
bench. And once we’re sown up, living,
walking around, our Corelle organs
slowly crunch away into shards.
They first collect, around our feet,
soon piling up to our ribs. Can you see it?
We’re trash bags full of glass, if you like.
We’re a spilt river, sharp
in the current. And I think I found
the first trouble with God. Just today
in fact, he leaned back in his swivel chair,
wove his fingers behind his bald-spot
and told the secretary I should have only
made the things that scuttle. Those gravel-
hatched creatures, all jaws and motherless.
Once all my viscera has shattered away,
is my fleshy skin-bag
more useful as a flag, or a pool-cover?
Woody Woodger is a New England poet who is forthcoming in Barely South, (b)OINK, Darkhouse Books, and Postcard Poems and Prose. He has also received publications in Soundings East, Golden Walkman Magazine, and the blog Dear Hope. He was also a finalist in the 2016 Paper Nautilus Debut Chapbook Contest.