My Body

My fatigue is like a cold, ghostly hand

which creeps relentlessly towards my core.

And when it hits the nerve, I fall.

My dreams so ambitious,

my heart so loving,

my emotions so bitter,

stuffed up too close together

in this tiny child's body.

So weak, so weak.

How does it breathe during sleep?

How does it live through the night,

when newborn infants die?

The lamp snuffed out, the dark just right.

The blanket askew, my shoes too tight.

Nothing else to cling to.

For hours I dream frightful subjects,

my subconscious loves me so much.

The mares in the night do gallop

with murder and rape and abuse.

I must always run from something.

I cannot run from the ghost

in my tiny child's body.

It's enough to crawl helpless on the floor.

(You snail.  Leaving trails behind.)

[How could the reaper take what is

already lifeless?

It can't touch me.]