A stranger with the crude audacity
to stick her head inside you, look around,
she hums (a loud, obnoxious buzzing sound)
but doesn’t stroke you, even call you pretty.
She takes some pictures of your inner city,
just husks of buildings, bridges, not profound
shots of your thoughts in motion. She’s not bound
to value you as you. So you feel shitty.
And when she’s finished sounding all your parts
she’ll mount an exhibition of the shots
she’s taken of your crannies, soul-suffused
or not. The critics say that of the arts
that show the way the body-machine rots
hers is preeminent. But you feel used.
From Hungry by Daniel Karasik (Cormorant, 2013)