Carnivore
Multiple sclerosis is a disease in which the immune system eats away at the exterior covering of nerves.
I’m consuming myself,
my doctor says, and I get
the urge each time I lift
a fork. How it rattles
with anticipation as I aim to
plunge it into the scar
tissue of my chest. No worries.
The heart is not where
the heart should be. Neither
am I. I’m supposed to be
upright and sturdy as a moose.
Better yet, a gazelle. I
used to walk so gracefully,
so elegantly in that animal
me. How my antelope
nose soothed my buck’s
neck before he stotted away,
stomping out my heart
like the last flame before
silence. I’m lonely. This entire
burnt forest has forgotten
my name. I bend to lick
the ash and remember
nothing. Not even the twitch
of my heart once pink and
alive as a nest of hatchlings.
He chewed it off just like
I’m gnawing at the dead
gazelle of me. At night I detect
thumping. Heartbeat or
hoofbeat, I can’t say. It creeps
further away, memory of
a man who once loved me,
hungering for the whole of me.
Oh I used to be more edible
than this. And so mealy.
Rigoberto Gonzalez
🪷
This Isn't The Life
I ought to live. But it’s mine. I hold close this life, reach out and
grasp it as it flutters and press it close to my chest, my heart beating
alongside it, making a new rhythm. I suffer, yes. Yes, I suffer. And I still
love nothing like I love myself. My life, stained orange like the tangerines
I feed the dog. I accept this living, let a slice dissolve on my tongue,
hold both the acid and sweetness. This isn’t the life I sought out to live,
but I thank it, I’ll anoint the day in fragrance and oils, all parts of its soft
and delicate shell. I am here with you, says your life. With my woes,
with my woes, with my woes and all the other parts. If you’re reading
this, it don’t end here. If you’re reading this, it isn’t too late.
Faith Arkorful
