Severed

You are

The severed limb

That lies forgotten on the arena.

With strained voice

I struggle to sing above the sound

Of your phantom pulse.

How do you know you are?

I published this post on my The World is Your Diary, but I'd like to post it here, too in case anyone reads it.

How do you know you are?

During a lesson on the human condition today, I asked my students to respond to the following journal prompt:

What makes us human? How do you know you are human, anyway?

I (and my students) would like to know what the world thinks of this question, so please take a moment to respond thoughtfully in the comments. Do it for the children!

Stare

Stare

Your gaze is coarse

Like line-dried linens

Sweet-smelling and

Sun-warm but rough to the touch

You strip me of verbs

And use them to

Skin me, pepper me with your pupils

And sear my being

With heavy nouns I blush to utter

But I return your gaze

Resolutely

As an insolent child stares down the sun.

A Riddle

My insides are a matter of opinion,

And my possessor selects the tint and temperature

That my crystal skin reveals.

He hoists me to the heavens in exultation,

Then kisses me with greedy lips

And I drown him in dizzying blood.

He transfuses and again drains me with delight,

For I am naught but a vessel of delicious summer night.


What am I?