Your Body is a Battleground

Imagine yourself at war
the Empress sitting in her throne
at the center of your chest
commanding all the cells of the body
to march.

Last night I dreamed
I was alone in Africa
with no way to know which way
to the safety of the sea,
which strange food or drink
would make me wretch at the side of the road,
and how to avoid the angry gangs of the dark continent
from casting my used flesh to the side of an unknown path.

It is the worst of times
as I chase myself back over a dozen years
to punish the first failures.
The queen watches, amused
her nose slightly raised to the heavens
knowing cautionary words of hazard or drowning
in self-pity won’t matter here.

Education of the body
is only satisfying when I lash myself
to a doubtful dream—
when I open the profitable pores of my skin
to fortuitous change like well waiting for water
Like eyes hungry for light.

If I dream of Africa
or the myth of the naked man
I always crawl onto with raging compassion
and desire—
it is there reality will erupt
with the force of the wind
against the broken battleground of the body
that aches to disappear-
afraid to be discovered
by constant change.

White flags were never carried by this company of soldiers.