POETRY BY STEVEN WOLF
Hiking up the mountain.
An elation of sunlight and boulders and sweat,
a reverie for my body-mind to reverberate
in a cosmic incarnation---exhaustion!
my body craves it to give to my mind
to forget, to lose my self,
to live in a mitrochondrial metaphor:
imagining vigilant immune cells
shepherding vast vessels and tissue,
living parsecs of ganglia and leukocytes
Climbing skyward on a narrowing ridge
of rocks and dry, cool air
dizzying views open on both sides
while the west wind scatters the withered
dried-up flotsam of viruses
away from my soul.
And the only sound I hear is the buzz of neuropeptides talking,
mulling over the weather inside my body...
and occasionally the battle cries
of macrophage cells from Norse legends
reveling in engulfing and disgorging enemies,
spitting out the bitter invaders, dismembered;
flaunting the severed antigen particles
on their coats in prideful display.
Victorious little barbarians with pulsing veins
parading with pride and heated accomplishment
their mutilated minks and chinchillas
so unlike the foreign-adornment ritual of desperately serious opera goers
who belittle Life and Art
with pungent lack of purpose.
compromising my body
with uncompromising fervor.
Yet individually oblivious
without a clue,
unable to smile
or admire the soaring pelicans
or muse on your mortality.