Vessel.

Because the good stuff is inside.

This birth-beaten body is mine.

These walk-weary bones and these stockingbag stones.

This inching, unflinching decline.

These blear-bordered eyes and this puckered disguise.

This creaking contortion of dust.

These pin-pestered nerves and these destitute curves.

This spot-stippled, care-furrowed crust.

These grease-battered clots and these gristle-bound knots.

This birth-beaten body is mine.

This animate archive is me.

Each pain-peppered leaf and each entry of grief,

Each morsel of mental debris,

Each flame-frosted cake and each paper-plate wake,

Each fizzing ignition of bliss,

Each love-lousy ode and each moral bestowed,

Each gamble, each gut punch, each kiss,

Each appetite stirred and each page-guzzled word,

This animate archive is me.