When I turn over onto my stomach,
I think about how I rarely saw my father cry
The times he danced, how the color of moss deepens in a forest after rain
And wonder what will show in this photocopy?
Will you see my rib cage and wonder?
Does he have enough to eat?
Or will my fat reserve over time just shade my ribs in?
From it, will you feel my hunger or the tint of laughter or lust
sprinkled on my skin a moment earlier? Shall we just expect a dull gray blended mess?
I guide my fingers onto the machine.
Press them tight, seeking some meaning or sense of identification,
Even if it is just through superficial lines.
The machine turns on, and it, like our lives, scans me
Almost faster than I can blink. It attempts to copy me
Simply as I am at that moment. Hungry or hungered,
Wild fruit and not the stomach to handle it-
Peppery between the teeth, something that hopes to leave a taste.
Maps show depth; photocopies present tense.
I pull my leg onto the machine, smash my face against it.
Then wait for a print out of my form, in the way of your smile.
For now, you have a copy of me.
Tomorrow we may have to do this again.