The Passing of Flesh
My skeleton is All that I am , all that is truly me, All that I have that is mine by right - And that, nothing but a collection of Bleached and foetal feelings, Bony aspirations and, perhaps, Hidden in the marrow, a fledgling soul. All this is but a weak, fragile and collapsible frame; An existence, but not a life. All that is the flesh of me - All that constitutes The vitality of musculature, the excitement of thought, The perpetuity of blood, the reliability of heart And the strong sack of skin That holds it all in - Is the gift of those who are other to me. For I am of myself but the expression of others - Passive to the process By which meat is moulded; By which flesh is fitted. Admired or abandoned, cursed or called, Loved or left, kicked or kissed - I react And, inch by inch, am built. To control, To reach out and grasp, To gather and to knit, To claim as myself all that is me And to bind all that is mine To my own Inviolable bone Is to become - and be. And then, once constituted, Inch by inch I erode Like an ancient cliff. For living is giving, And the giving Is the passing Of the flesh In which the bones of us all Are dressed. |