Wednesday, 16 June 2010

498-A

My torso is a drum
Reverberating under your closed fist and open hand
My back the mat
You wipe your feet on, careless, forceful.
And my breast the pillow
On which you rest your head and try your teeth.

You have taken and turned me
From human
Into furniture/instrument/tool.

You have dissected me,
Separated me into my component parts.
Tossed away every superficial thing,
Save(d) only the bare essentials.

The hands that bring you food.
The mouth that brings you love.
The throat on which you test the tenacity of your grip.