poem

 

in the field behind the house
tiny birds perch on the tips of the grass,

it is dark, you forget to buy food,
hungry for something else,

your eardrums build a picture of the world,
there is a monster inside your ribs,

you think about the way muscles cling to bones, the
skin parts gently, there is a

world beneath,

you wonder what a beating heart would feel like
in your hands, slippery and firm, sweetly
metallic,

unfathomable,

as if you were suddenly nestled
in a foreign body which rejected you,

despite the drugs, the careful placement, the
way the body needs you, but would rather die
than allow you houseroom.