Unwrapping Yourself

The day unrolls itself around the fabric
of life—frayed rolls of cloth untouched
since birth. Drive west on the freeway toward
the ocean, unwrap yourself like a mummy.

Amber alert warnings describe
what you’ve added to the folds,
what to scatter, and what to keep.
Billboards along the roadside unmask

layers of shoe polish, imported cologne,
hair color, and a dark mustache. This episode
is not a peeled banana or onion but an entity
unabashed, unveiled, stripped down,

a bare soul exposed, all your vital organs
and electrolytes pictured on a poster
at the Main St. exit downtown. A familiar
ad says change your appearance in only

twenty minutes for instant results,
or double your money back. Unfold
the final layers of linen wrap with hair,
nails, skin, muscles, ligaments, and bones.

Stabilize your pulse and inform your cells,
platelets, chromosomes, and lymph nodes.
Apply pressure to your wishbone.
Uncover a singularity before the sun sets.

José Chávez is a poet, educator, consultant, and dreamer. His poetry has appeared in the Multilingual Educator Journal, Acentos Review, and Inlandia Anthology. He has written two award-winning bilingual poetry books for children and currently lives in Riverside, CA, is married, and has three children.