There aren’t many liver conversations at dinner parties.
People don’t hug their livers the way they put a hand to their hearts.
They don’t cradle their infants thinking Oh your lovely oversized liver.
Rolling together in bed they don’t say Hmmm, let me spoon your liver.
The hard working liver doesn’t get the credit like T-cells do.
It’s not visible like spilled blood or common like skin,
exotic like spleen or mentioned like the stomach.
Most people don’t even know what the liver does.
When they stamp their foot in anger they don’t think
there goes my liver again. They don’t connect the liverish feel of it.
Lying under the umbrella of the diaphragm,
massaged by breath and supported by a tube of intestine,
weighty brown and green lobules drape across the middle of the body.
I growl with the strength of my liver
and silently detoxify, metabolize, synthesize, and store
support for every function I’ve ever been to.