The body wants to swim
the cenotes, where long ago
someone either very wise or equally foolish
would have offered a sacrifice
to appease one god or another,
to cement his place in some kind of heaven
or just stay firmly planted here
and be fed. The body
only works for profit. There was a time
I can remember now
when all the days were just means
to the night. That’s when the body
knew me best. It could have loved
this place, all tan and bluster.
The quietest bull in some imaginary
china shop. It could do damage once.
But there would be some abstract pang,
always home in its throat
that would worry, keep it back
like some bystander to a fight
with only one pre-ordained winner. The body
has whims that might make us feel foolish
later. But once without warning, it leapt
to choose its own adventure,
impulsively turning the page
before the last sentence
could be read. I didn’t ask it why
because I knew then
that sometimes there’s nothing else
but to move.
It’s in Mexico now, kind of
And it’s pretty here.
It sits in the shade, covered
in some sensible sunscreen.
But it longs to rip out a heart
toss another body into the water,
give to the gods and be fed.
Chelsea Logan lives in Nashville, TN. Her work has most recently appeared in The Paper Dragon, PIF Magazine, The Dead Mule School, MockingHeart Review, and several anthologies.