Poem: Written In The Body

A hand, it’s mine, pulled down my gullet,

Fingers creeping so. They stroke the walls of my

Organs slow. Sifting podging, pull on.

I’m searching: going digging through the pieces,

A medical text at my side. But

What I seek cannot be found between the blood

And oxygen. Although I should be

Here, I think. We are as we make, we be, we—


Fast, too fast—

Where am I? Can I be found?

A panic mottled, stodged the sound

Of me.

Am I here at all?

Echoes, ring from an answering call.




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