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      July 16, 2018Practical AnatomyWilliam H. Wandless

      Receptors on the tongue can detect perhaps
      eight flavors: salty, sour, bitter, and sweet
      routinely, umami and kokumi
      if one becomes accustomed to the pairings
      and partings of Eastern cuisine, and of course
      iron and ash. This will explain your taste
      for the subtler mushrooms, buttery wines,
      and sunburnt shoulders, the mouthfeel of every Yes
      you regret. In each inch of skin one finds thirty feet
      of nerves prepared to fire or fail, almost
      two hundred committed to touch, ten times
      as many dedicated to real, remembered,
      and expected pain. In a lifetime you will shed
      half your weight in skin, cells expended in the search
      for the pains you prefer or deserve. The brain (and this
      may be the sovereign paradox of the body)
      cannot itself feel pain; it must explain
      sensations to the organs and extremities
      using strong Saxon words, as you would describe
      love or culture to a foreign, feral child.
      When the head aches blood is to blame, or the heart
      to be precise, pumping with a rhythmic disregard
      for all the damage it will do, smug in its seat
      just left of center, not quite where you think,
      darker, too, and smaller, balled like a fist.

      from #59 - Spring 2018

      William H. Wandless

      “Michigan winters take a toll on the body, but some days I set out for long walks to clear my head. The walking itself seldom helps, as the work of it typically feels more like penance than exercise. When I get back inside, however, I know I’ll enjoy the essential benefit: the feeling of my body overcoming numbness, putting me back together sense by sense. This poem, and the verse I love the most, makes a grab for that feeling of restoration. Poetry returns to me things I’ve been missing.”