Self-Portrait as Apostrophe

Hanging between, I exude
brevity and omission. I
contract, float in air,
halo possession, illuminate
obscurity: I am syllabic
indicator, glottal
stoppage, the sound
concealed beneath
floorboards. Dividing,
I never conquer.
Watch me turn away.

Self-Portrait as Comma

I am that pause, hesitation
and delimiter, the curled
caterpillar at leaf's edge.
Caress me, I'll divide your
line, offer order, reduce
confusion. Or, misplaced,
will knot your tongue
to the base of a compressed
lump of syllables humping
across mistaken intent.
I dream dot and dash,
consort with numbers,
coordinate and conjoin,
splice and descend.
Remove me at your own peril.

Self-Portrait as Exclamation Point

I shout. I declare. I warn
and emphasize in muted glory.
A full stop point with vertical
arm, born in joy, signifying
admiration or perhaps a shift
in tone, I brace for meaning.
This is my hope: to be
heard, though silent.  
To augment a voice, to blend
in harmony, one note otherwise
unnoticed, alone, reaching
back to gather and trundle
forward all that precedes  
to that ecstatic, thunderous
halt. I live to end!

Self-Portrait as Root 

My full beauty lies beneath sight,
spread below in dark anchorage,
the heft of a life lived in the
underside, thriving in cause and
bound to earth. What is love if not
the slow sip of nutrients rising? I
grip and expand, maintain and
absorb, securing place with
steadiness. From me, you grow.
Follow this thought and return
to its seed near the surface. I am
faith, unhindered. Light, reversed.

Self-Portrait as Hole 

That which I contain
breeds space, confined within
borders and the logic of separation.
Or, looking closer you see
only losses reinforced at the edges,
some sharp, others polished smooth
as broken glass washed ashore,
still transparent yet altered. Is filling
the answer? Is correction,
repair? Standing alone, I am emptiness
incarnate. Nothing. I say again: Nothing.

Self-Portrait as Bowel Movement

In hospitals, my status increases
with absence, colors every
passing day's queries: have
you had a BM, they ask.
And often. This is of course
no mystery. I am Legion. I
contain multitudes, am arbiter
and symbol and vessel of messages
of good faith and lost hope, offering
myself for the common good,
selflessly, never pretending to be
what I am not. You look forward
to my visits, miss me when I'm
gone, wonder when I'll return.
Admit it: you love me.