POEM by Chris Hewitt




Even my head is brittle—
Sometimes it feels like an egg—
Soft-boiled with a crackable shell—
a dent or two
and the brains would spill out—
my precious brains
without which I used to be nothing
but which now I use to be
other than brainy—
I can think attractive,
I can talk sexy, flashing my lovely eyes
at a man and get his number,
better still, a wink
that says "You're cute."
and he's not editing;
he means all of me.



CHRIS HEWITT lives in San Francisco, where he is currently teaching a course at the Harvey Milk Institute. His poetry and translations have been published in The New Yorker, The Advocate, American Poetry Review, and The James White Review. Chris has osteogenesis imperfecta, "Brittle Bones Disease."