Tuesday, March 9, 2021

Our Bodies Are Sick of Our Selves

Like they’re sick of foot fungi,
Like they’re sick of head lice, like
They’re sick of autoimmune
Diseases, they’re sick of us.

Oh, we say we are them, call
Them deserving of our love,
Are proud when we’re proud of them,
Body positive and loud.

They’ve had just about enough,
Sad galleons we’ve infected,
Pirate cultures boarding them,
Leaping lightly, lip to lip.

They can’t do away with us.
They need us to steer the ship
Now we’ve murdered their instincts.
What can they do? They’re lumber

And canvas, stolen supplies,
Kegs full of ardor, creaking
Rigging, leaking bottoms, decks
Rinsed in brine, bound to capsize.

We party in cramped quarters,
Spy for new ships from crow’s nests.
We’re selves, stowaway maggots.
We’re their abandoning rats.

We’re the barnacles, borers,
And boredom. We’re the doldrums.
We’re what infests our bodies,
‘Til they sink us in the depths.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.