Poem 444

How death transmutes the body from subject to object, how it separates at that moment from the person it was identified with in life and becomes a new thing in the world … similarities here to the corpse talking in Poem 27 …

( I particularly like the fat headed cheerful child … )

The Body

I'm not someone
I'm the body on the wharves

I was born an hour ago
in a loss of blood

someone was here
their heart floundered
and they left
                          that was my mother
I didn't see my father
the sharp part that fits these holes

but I am a fat headed cheerful child
waiting for morning
for running footsteps
any vomiting there might be
and then the stupid
stupid questions

hello hello
who's this then?