Six Ways to Remake Your Body

I. The Doll

In the language of flowers, your (his) body is the kind that
Destroys
No matter how much you could do you would remain a (his)
Doll
With pale limbs like crab legs, full of love and tender
Meat
You’ll lay yourself (him) in the room with the blue-white walls and the lack of
Eyes
And you’ll think about what you’ve (he’s) done and how you’ve (he’s) gone
Feral
And broken skin again because you have (he has) a kink for ripping out your
Lungs
And you’ll cry because it (gets you off) makes you think you’re
Normal
But you weren’t the one who taught yourself (him) to be so
Cruel
You had the words of a martyr in your ears and they would
Root
And you would believe him

I. The Infant

Open up your heart, then close it once you’ve crossed the
River Styx
And left behind the parts that were nearly all of
You
Don’t look back, though it tempts you, or you’ll be reminded of your (his)
Body
Twisting and writhing as you burned and screamed and clawed it
Off
Don’t look at your hands, they are still covered in your (his)
Face
Look away! This feeling you have will be your new
Craving
Your buttoned eyes and needle-stuck frame, sailing away in the numb, freezing
Darkness
Don’t you have anything that can fill this empty, fucked up
Space
At least you can curl up, submerge yourself in fluids, and pretend you’re an
Infant
And be, perhaps for a moment, reborn


I. The Prophet

Little troubadour, have you known them all since
Birth
The songs that you’ve been singing, the poems you’ve been
Repeating
You’ve made it clear, you speak because it’s
Destiny
It keeps a fire lit inside your body, without it such sweet fruit won’t
Grow
And even the memories, as if leaking from your golden lips, are
Numb
You only know how to live if you lived it already, without it you can’t
Know
You are your grandmother, shoulders raised tall, divined at
Twenty-Five
Somehow you knew, poolside maiden, all-knowing
Witch
How to never be alone, never cry, never make mistakes, never
Doubt
You are a mother

I. The Memory

You could imagine this as if it were some piece of your
Heritage
Like carpets on the walls, bleeding strands of milk and honey from their
Extremities
Or tea-stained shirts and ruffled skin dragged along wooden
Floors
Like shadows falling over the horizon as millions of days, like roses,
Wilt
So you are, scavenging your past, grafted of blankets and scented
Candles
You are searching, as beautiful newborn bugs might, for a way in which to
Survive
Hands outstretched, to past selves not tied by ripped letters and full of
Naivety
You find a way to take on the best parts of them, nestle into the spaces between their
Toes
Coated in layers of wax and fears packed like overstuffed luggage, you notice, you are
Changing
And yet, you miss being unchanging




I. The Neon Hunter

Imagine drowning in your hands as they dance above the wheel and reach for the
Stars
As you sit and pull pink hair out of your sweet mouth like gum out of day
Dreams
Each strand woven like fevers of typed up
Personas
Each creature, companion, technicolor lover and muse are all selves to
Own
Does your body ache to have wings, radiant and patterned in your
Fingerprints
Patterned in all the selves you could become, fantastical
Projections
Of something switched on, automatic, with beautiful idle
Animations
So that anyone who passes by falls in love with this body that exists only in
Myth
Forming drawings of people, dragons, faunas of folktale, more parts rose and red and blue
So are you?
A memento of this loved, borrowed self

II. The Flower

Deep breath. Inhale . . .
Exhale
Deep breath. Inhale . . .
Exhale

In the language of flowers, yours is the body that remakes itself
Your limbs sewn into place by jasmine vines and pale moonlit blossoms
Each arm, each leg, carrying with it a piece of your past, your future
Like eager little dust bunnies, mingling with electric gods

You’ll find your wild heart inside a styrofoam box
Then place it back where it belongs, inside that same porch-lit sweetheart
As every piece connects you feel yourself finally made of something new
Sweet little dewdrop, waking to the sound of birds above abandoned buildings

©2025 Michael Klinberg

A classically trained violinist and music educator, Michael Klinberg earned a BM in Violin Performance and an M.S. in Music Education at Indiana University. Additionally, his work in the video game music field—including founding the Music in Games Society, performing at national festivals, and organizing K-12 workshops—has allowed him to bridge musical experiences to identity and expression. In that vein, his poetry is rooted in personal, highly imagined, and often nonlinear narratives. His aim is to explore the connections between surrealist and confessional modes, to portray through sensory imagery such abstract human experiences as trauma, grief, and the passage of time.