Grooming

I love to pick my nose

And I know I’m not alone I see you
At traffic lights and in the office across the alley

How liberating to peel a crusty shield
from its choke-hold on the moist mucous membrane of
my delicate nose, or in the midst of a dry dry winter to put
a finger pad against my septal cartilage and push and bend it enough
to pull away a single vast scab, dry up top,
thick and damp and bloodied below adhered now
to my finger where I stare at it and begin to breathe again
and wish I could share the wonder of
this product of my own sacred body

But  oh! The civilized revulsion 
of basic body functions,
civilized–as in the cultre of rape and pillage and plunder that washed ashore
In every land the Europeans coud reach by boat–
If i could unculture myself I could clean my ass with my own left hand rather than
requiring the death of ecosystems to protect my privileged palms

If only we could wipe away our fears of our embodied bodies 
how could we then snuggle in with the members of our tribes,
our herds, our flocks, our troops, our packs
and sniff and stroke and lick and pick, unashamed and 
unabashably, and fall asleep clean within
the nest of our animal selves