marrow, sick and pink,
sneaks out from my fingertips,
wriggling like worms escaping from puddles.
how could i keep it in,
where it no longer belongs?
the heart, thumping oddly and browning quickly,
cannot exist outside the body for long:
but mine, poor slavish thing,
lies there, prone on the countertop,
for days and weeks and months
watching, waiting, bored.
how should i have kept it at bay?
i turn my whole body loose,
since each organ and each cell and each synapse
were too restless inside me;
there was no peace, there could be no rest
while the blood boiled and
the kidneys pulsed and
the stomach churned and lungs inhaled.
so emptied now i am finally stilled,
quiet and able to sleep.