Flesh Poem by Mark Sauer

Three pounds of pink jelly in a bone box
Seem an improbable seat for a soul;
The slime, whence we rose, within us still mocks,
Spittle of God mixed with dirt in a bowl.
Twin orbs like poached eggs, that one pinhole mars,
Trace on their membrane the whole of the world;
Swelling to compass the sphere of the stars,
Scrying the lightning creation once hurled.
This thumb in our maw wiggles and spasms,
Twists animal grunts that belch from the throat,
And souls ride the air, leaping the chasms
To touch and entwine above the black moat.
An intricate toy, this golem we choose,
That, once discarded, melts back to the ooze.