← v1n1, Spring 2002Poetry · Volume 1, Number 1
Disappearing Act
No, soul doesn't leave the body.
My body is leaving my soul.
Tired of turning fried chicken and
coffee to muscle and excrement,
tried of secreting tears, wiping them,
tired of opening eyes on another day,
tired especially of that fleshy heart,
pumping, pumping. More,
that brain spinning nightmares.
Body prepares:
disconnect, unplug, erase.
There'll be a fight. A deadly struggle.
We know, of course, who'll win. . . .
But who's this, watching?
