Sometimes I wish I had detachable body parts.
My mouth I would leave locked in a box, wedged
between two bricks. Then, when my grandmother
asked what to give her cousin, a nun, I could not have said,
“Early edition of the bible. Signed by Jesus.” My ears I’d tag,
then send on their own way. Perhaps ironed and slipped
between pages of library books. What has your own mouth
betrayed in the presence of Hemingway or October’s
Popular Mechanic? My eyes I’ll leave with my grandmother
as she is old and likely to stumble when no one is looking.
She can have my hands too. To open jars, diet coke cans,
and to smack her demon-spawn cat into next Tuesday.
“Love nips” my ass (Donated to charity, there’s more
than enough to go around. Twice.). Toes to my cousin Bubba,
who has none on his left foot. May he grow accustomed
to cherry red nail polish. Other parts I’ll pitch, or burn,
as lately I have read many stories of nefarious teeth.
And my nose I’ll keep, for purely selfish reasons.