The Body Is No Machine

Jennifer Perrine

But it clicks and whirrs its history: for my father,
it begins at fifty-five: after cancer and remission, 
the slink back through evolution: bird-wattle 
descending from his throat: amphibian sheen 
of his skin: lower lids pendant cocoons of silk: 
and even inside, the valve of one ventricle
puckering like a fish, or my own lips: perched
at the beginning of a word, before I realize:
he's fallen asleep in his chair before the TV, 
his body buoyant in its bath of noise and flicker:
and watching him, I too am growing old: ancient
as Lot's daughters: gazing at my father's naked
clockworks spinning in the darkness: tick of tooth
against tooth: steam and hiss of narrow escape.
    

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