Exhibit A-pology

Behold, these, a genius’ hands, labelled like
Museum stickers, a genius’ hands. They used to be larger, but now I
Spread them open like a scroll of a map of the world
Where I have traveled from pole to pole, and can
Fit them back in mine like a crushed ball. I brushed over the
Knots swelling at the joints, from laundry and dishes
Over the years, the arcs of my voyage, history making,
Tracing my path of destruction. Repentance. I
Squeeze them tightly. This is unbefitting.

These, a genius’ eyes. Sure and steady as they were
In their youth, staring out in pictures, in person, in mirrors. They are
Engraved on the wrong side of the sticker, glue-blemished
Wall kisser. They see and are sworn to silence.
Like a fruit that has gotten womb-
Heavy, it rests between the lips of sagging leaves
Catching light from the undergrowth, still glassy with wide-eyed
Wonder. On the other side, there is a child
Pressed against a shop window, fogging up the vision of a snow globe.

This is a genius’ mind. I just know it is and you would have to
Take my word for it, though I have only ever saw it weigh
Down the spine, nothing more. The exhibit: Open the bathroom door,
There, crouched on the floor pants rolled above knees, heads
Down, scrubbing — what are you doing here?
It is a waste for this mind to perch on the body like a king
Sitting a servant into submission, growing pregnant with wisdom,
Some wilting lotus head, some humble August wheat.