After Bella

In truth, I know nothing
of her secret or public life.

She is flesh, a body carrying
blood, a tight pelt of skin,
the mapping of bones,
and the nervy jittery pulsing
of organs, a panting mouth,
a tongue, a small sack
of the same complex 
and rot that makes up
my constantly betraying self.

I know that when I lift
her, tuck her to my chest,
she slowly settles, pushing
back as if she expects
to remain intact after
I have put her down 
to scamper off.