J. K. Shawhan
MY PICASSO-ED POEM
I grew up crooked,
Picasso-ed, cubed
as a woman with protruding ribs,
forward and tilted hips,
her left shoulder jutted up, right shoulder
pulled down and back as far as it can.
I felt abstract in my natural sensation of fire and pain,
but now, labeled, I'm a mix of impressionist and
deformed-ist, my massage therapist
needs pictures to study
my odd form before she falls asleep at night.
Dreams of hunchbacks and my one long leg, I'm sure.
Scoliosis is an ancient Greek word,
obliquity, bending, yodeling—
someone yodeled to my spine,
an avalanche of back muscles, ribs,
abdomens and collarbones came crashing down,
sent a tingling chill down my fingers—
frostbite or roused by the music—
that's how I feel standing shirt and pants-less.
Turn right, turn right, face away from me.
Picasso or Gogh or Degas or whatever, I
am not a trained model.
I'm lop-y. My bones always
falling around me—can't
be captured without blurred corners.
Can't be drawn like your pretty,
solid girls.
I'm hopeful, a collector
of avalanched ribs,
collage them above
a lead-&-watercolor-beating heart,
glue 'n' paint 'em with knives 'n' forks
instead of soft-tipped brushes.
Broken pieces to piece my body,
make me normal. Make me stand straight.
Make me a pretty solid chick.
J. K. Shawhan studied business and writing at Illinois Central College and Bradley University. At Bradley
she won Co-Third Place for the Chester Sipple Poetry Award for a collection of 5 poems and began a collection
of poetry about art. She has been published in Bradley University's Broadside: Writers and Artists
and in University of California, Riverside's Mosaic Art & Literary Journal. She also founded the
Little Laureates Writing Club at Illinois Central College.
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