Sensorium
Emily Corwin
1
in dappled sun, in wine sap apples
I dab prismatic gloss atop my cupid’s
bow—the philtrum it’s called, it’s
chrome-like. I have a mouth & it stinks—
this is where I masticate the animal
brisket, the pie pumpkin & red plums,
pomegranate tannins. I dream inside
a jewelcasket, misted in microcrystalline.
2
inside the sensorium, the body of me
is delightful, delighted to meet you. you become
all atremble, my apple powder, my allergy. fit yourself
between my two palms, longing with bile & black-eyed susans.
I will make us a drink mostly ice chips, chambourcin in a stemless glass,
I will bring us an onset of fever.
3
this bed of dead roses & tuberose & rosehips & hawthorns, this drool
& booger. this floater in the eye, shred-like, collagen fleck, a squiggle,
a garter snake in my garden patch. I shudder as it goes by, in direct sun, I wish
I could extract it, show you my protein. in the sensorium, in drearsome nest
of yellow jacket bumble—my dear, my moon pie—I spy something red & boiled
& glazen—a wax fruit, fruit wax to slide over my stink. won’t you come hither,
come whether or not you like my leather miniskirt, my ether anesthetic—
help me onto the gurney, I won’t flinch.
4
hurtle down the hallway, hurtle down the hedgerows, I flush & ooze,
my mucus membrane something horrible. scab-picker, I make it worse
—slough off the carapace, the gelled cream & jello shots.
I’m afraid this is how things get when I forget my dosage—
fluoxetine to keep the creepy crawlies at bay. my ribs—breakable
rungs to be wrung then rolled out into fondant for the spongecake.
5
my sensorium, my innermost place, my nub—
nucleus of sensation on which I pivot. it is a
prism, plum-red, atremble. I feel the onset of
fever now. now, I come home to the medical
bed, cold-blooded & spectral—this, my casket
of jewels. this, my crystal & microbes. my body
glitter, it strobes, chrome-like. dunk me into the
wine jug, pin me up for apple bobbing, embossed
like a rosebud—so gorgeous, so gorged with feeling.