by Kenny Mitchell
Double-check you have not morphed into wax.
Are the appendages protruding from the trunk
of your body still soft skin, or have you hardened
your armor like they taught you in eighth grade
when a car flattened your cat at your Christmas party?
You cried. You watched as he twitched
and his insides squelched onto the pavement,
and when he became still, his body stiffened.
Still, with tears, you hauled him home. It was hard.
They said “you’re ruining the party with your moping,” so you
plopped by the Christmas tree. It was hard, was it hard
to wake up this morning and find your skin had not
hardened like exoskeleton? You are still soft. Still tender.
It was tenth grade when your grandfather requested you
be pallbearer at grandma’s funeral. You couldn’t
bear it, the weight, the load. The corpse, it was
caked in makeup to mask the blemishes from
Her accident. She was not herself. You grasped
her hand—it was hard. It was like wax,
and when you squeezed her hand farewell,
you left an indentation. That was hard. To see
a hand that was no longer her hand. Remember
if you wake up and don’t feel human, check your hands.
Knead the flesh of your palm. If it morphs to hand again,
you are still alive. You are still alive. Still, you are alive.
You are you, and you are alive! You are alive! You are
soft. Still human. Still tender. Still raw. Still. You are
not twitching. Not wax. It is hard to love because
someday love goes stiff. And you must convince yourself
to lift love from the pavement, to love even when the soft
animal of love’s body hardens, and you cringe when the
coffin contacts the ground. And you feel numb, too soft. When
it’s all too much, let the softness of your body convince you.
You’re alive. You’re alive. You’re alive.
Kenny Mitchell (he/him) is a fiction writer and poet from Nebraska. He is an MFA student studying fiction writing at Indiana University, where he teaches and serves as the fiction editor for Indiana Review. He is the co-founder and editor-in-chief of the (currently on hiatus, but slowly revamping) magazine and reading series Do Geese See God? His fiction and poetry appear in HAD, The Good Life Review, The Airgonaut, and elsewhere. In his free time, he’s still trying to figure out where Waldo is.
This poem previously appeared in the print magazine The Carillon.