This body is not all that, though

It houses all it tends to think
I am. Hungry belly, heavy lids,
Tired breasts, a behind
That could be bigger but isn’t,
Comfortably forty. Forty years!
This body’s four decades of
Little deaths, this body a blue-
Print for cells who very kindly
Continue to replicate to replace
What is lost as I die every day,
Though today have forgotten
To fill a few finer lines. It’s ok.
They don’t ask for reward
Or accolades. They just live
For me, give me a chance
To think about the texture
Of wood, the sound of my son
Breathing. When the day comes
My cells stop thinking, they
Won’t be making meaning
Anymore, they won’t mean
Anything when I walk out.
They won’t even be a door.
Truth is, I am the door.
My body just happened
To pass through.

29 April 2011

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