Embodied

Nothing is wrong and
nothing right one of
those days I occupy
my body like an exile
in a foreign land afraid

to eat exotic food
to drink untested water
to hear too keenly the strange
tongue of my inner workings
soft and unintelligible

billions of cells
living and dying ceaseless
and invisible the quiet
industry of  tissue
of  viscera
of  blood I don’t know

 how to inhabit
that perpetually perishing
ecology not hostile but alien
to the enduring singularity
I imagine when I am

again at home embodied
as if nothing is wrong and
everything right as if

I will live in
this disappearing form —
pulsing, familiar —
forever.

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Tags: body, creative writing, physiology, poem, poetry, spirit, spirituality