Self

© Margaret Wesseling

How strange to think the human body—

how it mourns its own passing.

Frail bone lodge bound with blood

shoulders arc guarding throb, craving

then nothing left. We will be light

to light one day, flesh to dust.

Now the body shits and spits,

moves, talks. Seems apart from us,

seems one with us. Grew up with us.

Stage by stage we drag it after us

and who knows

what we will do