If myself were distilled into
A test tube and held up to the
Light now, it would be two feet,
A bit of br ain between the ey es
And the ache where the lungs meat.
The rest is being kept
In another cabinet,
Access has been barred
And bureaucracy is quick
To thicken the dust on this key
There is the hope of everything
Being in that jar, housing
The organs I once owned.
The promise of wholeness, of
Complete myself, stowed away.
I’ll pay whatever it takes, I’ll
Take whatever works and spit out
Whatever doesn’t and if nothing does
I’ll smash the glass and let my guts
Mingle with the mud, set free forever.
Being Every Day 