Poetry Month
Disappearing Act
by Eleanor Ross Taylor
No, the soul doesn't leave the body.
My body is leaving my soul.
Tired of turning fried chicken and
coffee to muscle and excrement,
tired 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.
But here, I think, a smallish altercation
arises.
Soul seems to shake its fist.
Wants brain? Claims dreams and nightmares?
Maintains a codicil bequeathes it shares?
There'll be a fight. A deadly struggle.
We know, of course, who'll win ….
But who's this, watching?