Catastrophe Theory
by Blu Mehari
In most corpses, corrosion begins low in the gut.
On the bright morning of the disaster,
I committed to sleeping in, did laundry in baskets flush
With vinegar, so nothing took root
But the smell of wind. Worms were, at times, so rich
We thought they unraveled from a private
Cradle inside us or occurred from flesh alone.
My mother cradled a cat once who licked her children clean
And amputated their still wet heads with her teeth.
Even this, she muttered into my coal hair, was a mercy.
My hands, having little input, mime their sharp habits,
Their barren philosophies. Sometimes total white, sometimes
Pink warm nerve. A man can walk for years under
His own steam before his stupid heart abandons him.
This event is only partly mechanical.
The rest being the work of God.
A mug ruptures under my slow foot.
On TV, there is dying, houses.