Body Poem

Stop me if you've heard this one before, but
the saline hum of crushed cabbage at my fingertips
amplifies each heartbeat
each contour of broken skin
each shallow breach of integrity,
and stop me if you've heard this one before, but
the lunged arc of my spine invokes
shrunken lungs and wax-dipped capillaries,
a ventral etiology of concern

Bread

The cat has finished another potato
And I wonder, what am I missing?
Not B12, surely, I've been tested
Nr Arendt/Heidegger correspondences, no,
but I'll hang my posters
and hem the drapes
restock on emulsifiers
re-engage my rear breaks
And? Well?
Days arranged in a strained trikonasana,
Lungs that vacillate, not respirate.
The cat has turned her focus to the bread,
gnawed plastic, pointed ears, errant dough.