The Body Politic

 

The body politic rarely appears

in its breathing myth body, rarely tramples anyone

wearing its own face.

But we are oversaturated, overheated

and it must fall out of solution and run triumphant

through us until, crushed,

we are small enough to fizz away,

to create the dyspeptic, bitter waters of relief 

it will then drink.

Deflated, it will belch, consider

us fondly, all the tiny crumbs of anger gone

to brilliant thunder.

And then, it will leave the car. 

The daily papers will absorb it, like an oil stain

in the shape of god.

 

I was in a bit of a mood this morning. There was an argument that revolved, in addition to other things, around control and who has the right to control what aspects of your life. Where does your morality end and another's begin? Is it okay to unfriend someone online with whom you'd still be happy to talk to IRL? It wasn't particularly heated and no answers were determined, as those discussions tend to remain unresolved. One of us discovered a pile of laundry that hadn't been put in the machine (that would be me) and the practicalities of having been waiting for a buzzer that was obviously NOT going to go off in the immediate future replaced endless wrangling about 2020. Soon, hanging that laundry up will replace drafting poetry...but poetry will gain the upper hand again this afternoon, when I attempt a sestina. I've never had luck with this form. I've never finished a poem in this form. I'm a little bit imagining this attempt as the creation of a spear aimed right at the black heart of a terrible year. I'm a little bit imagining this attempt as an excuse to avoid working on other things. 

I hope to post again tomorrow, spear in hand. 

-- Chrissa