The Thing You Are

Something inside presses out –
doubt makes way for a somatic
certainty: some funkily persistent
lump too long suppressed:

the megalomania of the flesh
insists you notice it is always
center stage: pleads with you
to feel it, scrawl it in your blood

and sweat – bring body to
the poem on the page. Persisting
in the folly of convincing you
you’re really here, muscle, skin

and pelt decide they must be felt.
To hell with fear. A blundering
emergence: sensuality survives.
The thing you are arrives.

.