a story

I would like to be a story

Maybe my stomach could be the first notes of an opera
It is soft and round. It could be sung by fat men
in black suits at the top of their voices.
It should wobble and bounce and echo.

Maybe my bones could be the rattle of dancing.
If they were hung in a doorway by the beach, they
would chime in the wind. Fingers could strum
the lines at the corners of my eyes when I smile.

Maybe my skin could be the pale screen of a movie.
Light catches through a window and draws pictures on me.
Cowboys roam the sun-drenched praries on the bakc
of my arms. Gangsters move quietly in the shadows.

Maybe my hands could be the covers of a book.
They are bent over at the edges and well-thumbed.
People read carefully between the lines. They could
make stories from whatever they held between them.

Maybe my mouth could be a poem. It is so full of words.
I should take it down to a choppy sea and leave it on
the beach for the water to bubble on my tongue.

One day my ears could become shells.

My throat would make the sound of gulls.

Birds might pluck at my teeth for mussels.

My jaw would be driftwood.

And in time all that would be left is a simple conversation
Where the words are eroded to notes.

(from The Art of Walking Upright, Glenn Colquhoun, NZ poet)