Pity the Self-Middle Aged

Susan Hahn

Lying in the body is the self, lying
to everyone that it’s great—bloated
insomniac homunculus—rolling
in the ruins of the layered
skin and spin of fat, sneaking
tidbits at night from self-
help books beside itself
for help—a quick fix to grasp
a little rest, find its spirit path
a Hindu Vedic written in Sanskrit

would be nice—
far away from all craving,
the itch of carbohydrate scratch,
of want and hypothesis.
The refrigerator is packed
with cuts of cold
hopes that still desire to be grabbed
and heated—stuffed self

with its empty heart, its thickening
waist. Soon the waste of the body will
temporarily rid itself from the weight
of the noisy liar and the lair
of Here Me, Hear Me. The wish:
no more migrations from one birth
to the next—through all hungers of the ages,
to be lifted from such bondage.

 

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