© 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