POEM IN WHICH I CANNOT TALK ABOUT MY DISABILITY
Back to reality, I halve into the art museum.
There’s barely anyone inside, just a group
of girls flirting with Donatello’s David,
the earlier version. I model myself
into a bronze statue,
the kinds that lurk in the corner
and scrutinize without being
scrutinized. Girls, only accustomed
to linear perspective, coming straight
for my stoned anatomy.
They ask what are you looking at
and I cannot answer.
Forged eyeballs for sight. The museum label
for my body’s architecture
spells out visual impairment
and the girls back away.
Hissing retinopathy
like maledictions.
I have recurring nightmares of perfection.
Hallowed by the other girls. I exist
as inanimate objects, self-portraits,
remnants of lost antiquity. The museum closes,
devoid of human bodies.
I position myself in the underbelly of
my twilight eyes, back
into my unbridled vision.
SONNET FOR THE OTHER GIRLS
She wants to be like the other girls,
silvered and gutted. The first step is to
whittle a piece of her delicate adipose
into gemstone. Next, she fashions her eyes
so that she can see her reflection in
small concave planes. She is invited
to a party but forgets the dress code:
perfection. Instead, she slabs lipstick on
her bulbous lips and throws on an over-
coat made of fake rabbit fur. She looks just
like everyone else but they say other-
wise. After all, she was the first one to
leave. Stumbling into her own pretense, she
comes out hollow. Her reflection upturned.
Jessica Kim is a disabled poet from California. A two-time 2021 Pushcart nominee, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Wildness Journal, Diode Poetry Journal, Cosmonauts Avenue, Grain Magazine, Longleaf Review, and more. She is the founding editor of The Lumiere Review. Find her at www.jessicakimwrites.weebly.com and @jessiicable on twitter.