Circles and Circles
We are kin to round things
and edges and bottoms—everything
that loops back on itself to its own beginning.
All the circles of seas and lakes,
or the gaping cave of our arced mouth which
harbors that thin sliver of tongue while words
beat at the stones of our teeth,
which are hard edged—the rocks of the body.
Worse than bones and blood are your visible teeth.
We are circles and circles of bones
and teeth and mouths. We are pushing
at our borders of skin. We are miles
of looping veins that come back around
to begin again at our soft hearts, blood pulled through
not by pumping, pulled by the moon:
You can feel the alien tide of it moving.
Our blood was never of this body.
The moon is a mess of a circle
that sharp scythe in the sky is just a cold rock,
but with all a rock’s divinity. The body minus blood
is just another moon which endlessly pulls us back.
Paul Wiegel is a Wisconsin native and writes from his home near the Fox River. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The English Journal, Whale Road Review, and Hermeneutic Chaos Journal. He is a past winner of the John Gahagan Poetry Prize and Lakefly Writers’ Conference Poetry Contest. He believes you should read a lot more poems than you write.