A Fragment of an Underdone Potato

We attribute our well-being,
Whenever life overwhelms us
In deep, glowing satisfaction,
To our faith or metaphysics,
Our actions, our accomplishments,

And we attribute misery,
Any sense of unworthiness,
Similarly to our failures,
Or the harm others have done us,
Or to the place we feel we’re stuck.

Seems like we rarely consider
We’re bodies before we’re stories
About bodies being stories.
Well-being and misery both
Might be infection, lack of sleep,

Some imbalance we’ll never catch.
Still, we congratulate ourselves
For accomplished satisfactions,
Mutter mantras, exhort ourselves
To do better when we suffer.

Bad enough to be embodied,
Worse to believe belief stronger
Than pulsing metabolism,
But worst to trust our own advice.
Let’s pretend we never wrote this.