By James Asava

Once my body was a plum, a purple bruise

from my umbilical cord. Broken from 

stairs I've fallen down, my cousin 

shattered me like a vase in my

deceased grandmother's house. 

I knew how to get a concussion

before I knew how to tie my shoes.

We are not born a clean canvas.

There is always something on us,

Like a dent on a car, a scalloped 

cup unable to hold. 

How am I supposed to wash 

these shrunken clothes without 

any water?How am I supposed to wash 

my head when I can't see

what's dirty?