by Elizabeth Ross Taylor, from Blackbird, Spring 2002
No, soul doesn't leave the body.
My body is leaving my soul.
Tired of turning fried chicken and
coffee to muscle and excrement,
tried of secreting tears, wiping them,
tired of opening eyes on another day,
tired especially of that fleshy heart,
pumping, pumping. More,
that brain spinning nightmares.
disconnect, unplug, erase.
But here, I think, a smallish altercation
Soul seems to shake its fist.
Wants brain? Claims dreams and nightmares?
Maintains a codicil bequeathes it shares?
There'll be a fight. A deadly struggle.
We know, of course, who'll win. . . .
But who's this, watching?
Tuesday, April 05, 2011