Christian Ward

Self Portrait As A Plush Toy

Like a baked potato that's been scooped out,
stuffed, reheated, and scooped out again,
your body has turned into a plush toy
consigned to the bargain bin. The smug 
sky has taken a seat as the mittens 
of your hands has made showering impossible.
The coffee is a screaming mole; the cereal 
is a hive of angry wasps. The toaster 
is a bear trap waiting for you to slip up.
The cactus is a judge giving a pitiful look.
You'd return to the office, but know the jokes:
“He looks like a piñata that smashed itself!”
“Where's Doctor Frankenstein when you need him?”
“And how much were you reduced by?” 
The inbox is another pair of scissors. No cards
or flowers to stitch your back. Cancer turned you 
into a plush toy not even a dog would want.
You wait to be scooped out, stuffed, tested, 
scooped out again, and restitched until you 
are sold on Etsy. A one-off, kaleidoscopic and beautiful.

Christian Ward is a UK-based poet, with recent work in Southword, Ragaire, Okay Donkey, and Roi Faineant. Two collections available on Amazon and elsewhere: "Intermission" and "Zoo"