What are you, the Human, made of?
From the loving cup of the giant ammonite
the milliard glistening crystals of predatory lenses
the world-girdling scramble of the kelpie’s mane
the quark-wide jewel at the center of the scarab
the intimate leavings of ten to the ninetieth algal cells
the parchment wings of the last aerial saurus
the myriad cadmium and mouths of bark and fungi
the glitter of jasper and ground glass and radon
the bowels of earth’s mantle and the lightning of its breath
re-jiggering each time to a cabbalistic recipe pronounced
only once by the only mind that ever lived, and still lives
in you.

What am I, personally, made of?
Feet from carpet fuzz,
shinbones from old chopsticks in a drawer,
major arteries from disused charger cables,
a nose of chicken sausage that’s been
sitting in the freezer overlong,
a poll of innumerable shed hairs
re-stuck on,
stomach from the bean bag chair,
arms from overripe bananas,
nipples from suction caps detached
from who knows what,
an overgrown neck like a fat bonsai,
and the head – a mélange of salvaged parts
from the seven non-working laptops
lying in dusty corners waiting to be
responsibly tech-recycled.
Oh, and ten million books,
past, present, to come.

© 2022 Tony Longo