excavator

I am an excavator.
every layer down I go,
I extract what needs to be uncovered.

my skin,
my pawn line of a barrier
to all that which seeks to inflict harm.
Its protection hinders.
Its receptors give feelings,
the sustenance of touch.

I go deeper.
that padded passageway of remembrance,
that storage locker of every misstep
and foiled plan to do better.
I drill down, rebuffed by the energy it takes
to burn through the fat.

I suspend all movement
that these muscles make,
and produce what I can
when my own posture lopsides.
I halt the circulation of my own blood
to clear a path for where I’m headed.

dislodging my own shadow,
my shape shifts.
my bones crack as I extrude them out.
the protection they give
to keep my spine erect
falls away.

the rhythmic messages measured out by the
mitochondria
form pulses and communicate what needs to be said.
with their molecular motors revving,
I bring up the body
and exhume what makes -me-