If they told me to
I wouldn’t
I’d tug and stretch
That slicker of flesh
And taste the words
Spoken from a gifted tongue
A souvenir
From men I’ve never met
They might tell me what I’m made from
And I would search with fingers
For the sculpted chalk
Out of sight
Behind the seam of skin
And find it different
To the ones in museums and films
That had stared, eyeless, through dusty glass
They might write my name in red pen
An inheritance from Adam
But I know about the unfeeling, pink tissue
And the tubes and filaments
Which snap and crackle
And pop
And synapses that buzz
Wet with juices,
Which boil with thought and movement
These are mine
mine and no one else’s
