On Holter Monitors and General Malaise

By M.E. Hoban

Crisscross my body with tape:
would-be sex appeal, sticky
under breasts, in the hollow
of the hip with the freckle—
I am the first person to stop
questioning why I lag so much,
like an old computer, blowing
air and futility, wires all ajar—
Last summer I was spent
on books and buses, floors
pressed to my chest, a remedy,
the art of tiring gracefully—
*
The grace of artfully retiring—
My body a fruit out of season,
plucked and packaged, rimmed
with ripe red blisters, weeping—
Well, here, I give you a record
of my heart: jumping arrhythmic,
unfettered iambs, fists beating:
I am here
and I am
here
and I am
here

M. E. Hoban is an MA candidate at the University of Chicago and a poetry reader for Bombus Press. Her work has appeared in such places as Ghost City Review and Five:2:One Magazine‘s #thesideshow. She can be found on Twitter at @me_hoban.