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Tom Meschery’s Followers (8)
Tom Meschery
More books by Tom Meschery…
“How does it feel? I'm asked. I think,
―
as if enormous is not enough?
Now, I'm supposed to feel it?
Become the blind man and the braille
he reads. Somehow, outside myself, feeling
legs, arms, chest, cleft in my huge jaw,
eyes that are mine and, at once,
eyes of the beholder.
My body is no one's history.
Trace fingers over every joint and scar.
Run hands across my skin,
through hair. Feel my nose.
There is nothing there
I've not grown into
like the slow unnoticed rising of trees.
It's only now, bulk that I am,
heaving into someone's light,
I must endure questions.
Should I answer? The truth or a lie?
Perhaps in a voice equal to my size:
I suffer from this uncommonness.
I'm growing from the outside in.
My soul has not yet caught up.
- Giant's Fourth Complaint
―
“How does it feel? I'm asked. I think,
as if enormous is not enough?
Now, I'm supposed to feel it?
Become the blind man and the braille
he reads. Somehow, outside myself, feeling
legs, arms, chest, cleft in my huge jaw,
eyes that are mine and, at once,
eyes of the beholder.
My body is no one's history.
Trace fingers over every joint and scar.
Run hands across my skin,
through hair. Feel my nose.
There is nothing there
I've not grown into
like the slow unnoticed rising of trees.
It's only now, bulk that I am,
heaving into someone's light,
I must endure questions.
Should I answer? The truth or a lie?
Perhaps in a voice equal to my size:
I suffer from this uncommonness.
I'm growing from the outside in.
My soul has not yet caught up.
- Giant's Fourth Complaint”
―
as if enormous is not enough?
Now, I'm supposed to feel it?
Become the blind man and the braille
he reads. Somehow, outside myself, feeling
legs, arms, chest, cleft in my huge jaw,
eyes that are mine and, at once,
eyes of the beholder.
My body is no one's history.
Trace fingers over every joint and scar.
Run hands across my skin,
through hair. Feel my nose.
There is nothing there
I've not grown into
like the slow unnoticed rising of trees.
It's only now, bulk that I am,
heaving into someone's light,
I must endure questions.
Should I answer? The truth or a lie?
Perhaps in a voice equal to my size:
I suffer from this uncommonness.
I'm growing from the outside in.
My soul has not yet caught up.
- Giant's Fourth Complaint”
―
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