I know this already: The body
will leave me someday. In fact
it has already begun to seek
another animal: Wolfhound,
bear, tiger, lemursomething
with more teeth, muscles, mandible
in which to inhabit its hunger for flesh
already my bones have gone soft.
The body reports its sharp complaints
in Morse Code: Each dot-dash-dot
representing a unit of warning
gone wrong in the circulation; then
a rip, roar, tearing along
the hardened arteries.
It's true I have abused the body,
left it wandering in the rain and snow
too long, sutured the mouth against
howling. I have sacrificed it to the gods
who sucked salt from the plexus.
Now faint scars and marks remain: One runs
the side of my hip; another, beneath
the thorax. When all that mattered then
were the cries of entry and plunder, I
spurned signs of those black moles,
their tentacles growing like fiddleheads.