Bodies
Tess Gibbs

​Is this me, my body? Forreal, legit, deadass? How come I can’t recognize myself? Body: a self-
contained, compact object surrounded by space or other bodies. How is it that something as infinite,
godly, misunderstood, gaseous, irreplaceable as a soul can be locked inside a body? Where do I exist--
​electric brain, invisible ether trapped in a bottle, or the mind: possibly a fixture of them both. My mouth
is open now (and my nose always is)—how come it doesn’t come pouring out onto the clean sheets
encasing “me”? I wouldn’t complain about the cleanup. Sometimes I think I need a little less, anyway.
Builds up and laws of physics require a release… of matter. But does it matter? Is it worth searching for if
I will never pin it down like skin, bottle it like blood, hold it like intestines through my fingers, stack it like
brittle bones? (This body feels too fragile. How can I rely on something with five bajillion mechanisms to
support the soul-searcher’s purpose?) (Are they searching still, or found and are searching it? For what?)
If located, where do I put it? Do other animals feel this way? Or do they already know that it lies in the
hunt, in the taste of the day’s catch, in the downy touch of their babies? Back to basics, I see. I think
that’s where. Report back with further findings at a later date.