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.