D.W. Baker
Nomenclature
Under the hospital’s harsh fluorescent lights,
the doctor called me by the name
of all the pills I take,
one by one: a litany
replaced the name my parents gave
this flesh. I am a body
marked and charted,
named and seen
for minor features
I did not request.
Signifier Signature
boys don’t cry bodies weep
brutal force gentle rest
winter shorts cold seeks heat
calcify tender breath
feeling fine honest depth
south or north compass rose
gender born fluid flesh
toe the line highs and lows
self repressed living flow
fossil trucks self renewed
no means yes no means no
fast and rough slowly through
mountain men valley path
ever tough cleansing bath
Dream Rhythm (Death Rhythm)
Under the sparkling
calm facade I am
bones without
a face.
One day my skull
will sprout rain-
bows and my teeth
will grind the stars,
but tonight, this
body will sleep
and tomorrow
and tomorrow
and tomorrow
and again.
D.W. Baker (he/him) is a submerging poet and teacher from St. Petersburg, Florida, where he writes about place, bodies, belonging, and the end of the world. His work appears in Snowflake Magazine, Feral Poetry, Green Ink Poetry, Modern Haiku, and elsewhere. He is a poetry reader for Hearth & Coffin. See more of his work at linktr.ee/dwbaker, or find him on twitter: @lowermelody