I wrote this for my poetry class (it's supposed to be a prose outpouring on a body part). What do you all think?
There are potatoes sitting in my chest, frozen, stale potatoes with pointed pacifiers of punctuated electricity. They are pillowed in Jello and hang limp, limp, larger than fresh-picked apples, hang flanking my heart. The black hole of produce that is my chest siphons off rot in a direct triangle to my heart, where it nests and festers like an old mother bird still waiting for eggs that will never come. They cannot be touched, no, not even one finger tip around their five-minute circumference: they recoil into cemented potato holeiness at the mere thought of a darkened room and a seductive snaking of hips, two sets rubbing against each other and—no, the only way my nested heart can survive that siphoning is if they just aren’t there. There, now all I need to do is just smooth them flat, a thumb smoothing over a misbegotten ridge of clay, smooth them over in cool gray glances and then my heart will be released from its bodyguards, free to roam and free to caress and nest anyone and anything it chooses. But, holy bejeezus, my breasts aren’t clay and there’s no hand as large as my chest, no hand that can just brush them over like a wrinkle in tossed bedcovers and have them done. No, all I do is stare down from the cliff of my face and take the hands at my sides—hands suddenly as apart from my shoulder sockets as brush is different from the cliff it clings to—take my hands and watch from miles above as tan elastic bandage, four inches wide and nine miles long, as that bandage sandpapers my palms and makes folded-in Vs across my chest, steamrollering, a cement truck rolling across and reinventing. There is a gravelly sound that accompanies my new-wrapped cliff, the sound of a car pulling out of a gravel driveway, of a hand sliding across a filling page. And these hands that are not my hands but are attached to my elbows, which bend forward and sideways and back, over and over in nine miles of fabric, are attached to my elbows attached to my shoulders my—these hands wrap and smooth and they aren’t gone, my bodyguards, my potatoes, oh no, they are mashed, flattened like dried flowers in a dictionary, a dictionary bound to be shaken open in hours when paper cuts of weight dig into gravity and spread newly ballooning flowers all over my tan-marble linoleum. In my head, though, all across the clouds in a sky blue even at midnight, the only view is foreshortened fists opening and sliding and closing and turning and sliding, making interlocking Vs of sandpaper tan across my chest. Who knows what’s underneath? Who cares? All there is is a heart turning to iron and the two cement magnets of nothing—everything—flattened like a building under medical facades.