SOME DAYS
Some days I feel half human
and half bucket of water,
waiting to be tipped over.
Other days I slither
through the soil hiding
from the light.
The barracuda in me
wants better toothpaste.
What did my wife think
she was getting into?
I am part meatball
and part filet mignon.
I am both the cow
and the man getting under the cow
and kissing its breasts
I’m the hamburger
and also the person
eating the hamburger
in a parking lot
dripping ketchup onto his leg.
But I’m also the ballerina
standing on the cow.
BECAUSE I CAN’T AFFORD A REAL MASSAGE
Because I can’t afford a real massage,
I lean my head into the December sunlight
slicing between curtain and window frame.
I rotate my neck, so the sun beam becomes a hand
giving me a light massage. It’s been so long
since I’ve been touched. I’m two hours
from Coney Island, but still want to be
a polar bear, so I take a shower
and run into the backyard in a towel
with the understanding that the 28° air
is a cold plunge, minus the water. The wind
whips my shoulders with its invisible towel.
What’s real is being on the basketball court
and the guy I’m covering dipping his shoulder
into my chin, so my head snaps back. The ice packs
I put on my back are real. My daughter
messaging and saying the credit card didn’t work
at the coffee shop and she’s embarrassed—that’s real.
Her telling me to fuck off, but then letting me
rub her head for five minutes as she falls asleep
in the hotel room—real. Tucking my feet
under the dog on the sofa, a chainsaw in the forest
where the exact number of trees correspond
with how many days I have left on earth—all real.
And then a cloud moves in front of the sun
and the hand of light in my living room
dissolves on my receding hairline
and the massage is over.
JEFFREY MCDANIEL is the author of seven collections of poetry. His newest book is Thin Ice Olympics from Write Bloody Publishing. He teaches at Sarah Lawrence College and lives in the Hudson Valley.
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More poems by Jeffrey McDaniel in B O D Y.