For My Body.
Belly, thank you, holding whatever grief I feed on. What to do
with the blue corn chips, the almonds, the late-night
bread? Arms, thank you, hanging on until you crumble. Neck: stiff,
afraid of plunder. Spine and ribs, all my bones, lusty, involved. All
pouches, blossoms, chutes, sinews, cul-de-sacs, seedpods waiting for
harvest, thank you.
The son you bore, beautiful fruit moved far away, drove up and parked in
front of the house at Christmas. How giddy, how foolish the body leaving
the kitchen, the food roasting or boiling or waiting, belly under a red
apron, the body running to the front door, down the steps, metatarsals
shoeless on the driveway.
Iris and pupil and retina, red cones and blue cones working as if to
remember this: his body in his gray coat standing beside the car, keys
in his hand, his arms reaching to hold when your arms reach to hold.
Body: storehouse of the infinite, giddy, foolish, forgiven.