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