Ciliary Body, by Tamara Miles

My inner body is as unknown to me
As the plains of Africa,

Its hills and valleys, crevices
Where mountain lions lie in wait
For the immune system to grow weary
And falter.

The bobcat’s tail swings in anticipation.
The jaguar emerges from his nap.
All the cats set to pounce, to kill.
Deep in the night, I cannot rest for fear
They will smell me, they will leap.
My fingers clinch.

I try to think instead of mountain goats,
High, out of reach, sturdy on their feet.
Itinerant. Joyful.

But the king of beasts lazily
Moves toward me, not slouching toward
Bethlehem after all, not to be born
But to slay my paralyzed cells.
He is not to be tamed.

I am humbled by these felines,
Vaguely honored, in fact,
To be eaten nearly alive,
Neck snapped, spinal cord useless,
Vertebrae scattered.

Behind the iris, I wait for those dry, yellow days.