A Tradition

The body, despite being
Irrelevant to the world—
The body, despite being

Neither its own nor your own,
Another animal heart
With that little storm of you

Flickering in its skull’s cells—
The body, despite being
Already halfway to dead,

Halfway or more, will not let
Go, will not let itself be
Dissuaded, will carry on,

Keep going until it’s done.
In a sense, you admire it,
While you’re also part of it.

You understand the spirit
Of the cellular pirates
Descended from it, expunged

At great cost from it.
A tradition of going
And going without quitting,

Even when eating itself,
Life, billions of years of life,
The body, spiting being.