a life, a body, a machine, a mind

The clouds in Iowa
swoop in, darkening patches
of the road, blocking out
the accusatory sunlight.
For a few brief seconds,
I can see the world as it
is. I then go back to squinting.

I sit on my father's recliner,
my head upside down, my feet
draped over the top. It occurs
to me that the room is hot, and
every ounce of blood is dripping
to the top of my body as if through
a straw. I don't stop. The dog licks
my face, and through a thick,
foggy haze, I assume
that I laughed.

My body is
obnoxious. My toes
squirm, as if trying to
tear apart from me and run.
I used to blame them, but now
I appreciate their sync, hand
in hand with the drumming
of my heart. Steady.

I keep breathing
in, even when
I don't want to.
A machine, a vessel,
anything; I could call
this anything, but in
all reality, it is just
mine.