Apr 2023
“This is not the same body as it used to be.”
I breathe.
It shouldn’t be.
This is the body I prayed would get injured. The same body who laid anesthetic as they graphed the burns. The same body whose skin regenerated itself day after painful day. This is the same body that sat 4 days and 4 nights and saw the sky bleed into her; red cardinals like stars shining against the pink morning. This is the body that kept going through days of food withheld, that processed and digested the binging. This is the body that has carried hundreds of stones into the lodge’s womb. This is the same body that breathed into the sun rising over the Ganga river. That has sat up countless nights praying and singing to the holy fire. This is the body that was told if only there was no sign of womanhood across my belly, I could twist a little deeper - maybe ring out the demons who have feasted there for years. This is that body. The body who has spent countless hours in the face of God, pulling carrots out of the soil. This body has been baptized by oceans and rivers coast to coast because she said “if you want to get to know a place, get into its waters.” This is the body that dreamt of you in a cathedral reading holy scripture & woke to a red river parting my legs. This is the body who then let you go, my Sun, and buried you in earth and in heart. This body should not feel like yesterdays body, or two years ago’s body. When a dear friend was teaching me to weave a basket they said, “a basket is just a memory of pressure.”
So what is this body a memory of?
It is a memory of all the times I’ve made love.
It is a memory of all the meals cooked together
and fires knelt by.
It is a memory of every grain of dirt collected under my fingernails,
Every bead of sweat.
It is the memory of weeping on your floor as I smelled the shirts in your closet the day that you died.
It is every sun salutation and every night up too late.
It has been shaped and pressed and manipulated and loved so tenderly.
It has been looked up and down and turned inside out.
This body
I’ve forgotten
To praise
To love
To honor
To nurture
This body
I’ve remembered
To let rest
And be held
And fed
And let float weightless in the creek
This body
Is not
The same body
As yesterday
And I don’t want it to be
The same body tomorrow
I want it to be molded
By moments
Of wonder
When I get home late from the bar
Saturday night
2am
Stars
Exploding in the sky
So bright
It makes me stop
And breath in the cold
And the ecstasy
It is to be in
This body.
I breathe.
It shouldn’t be.
This is the body I prayed would get injured. The same body who laid anesthetic as they graphed the burns. The same body whose skin regenerated itself day after painful day. This is the same body that sat 4 days and 4 nights and saw the sky bleed into her; red cardinals like stars shining against the pink morning. This is the body that kept going through days of food withheld, that processed and digested the binging. This is the body that has carried hundreds of stones into the lodge’s womb. This is the same body that breathed into the sun rising over the Ganga river. That has sat up countless nights praying and singing to the holy fire. This is the body that was told if only there was no sign of womanhood across my belly, I could twist a little deeper - maybe ring out the demons who have feasted there for years. This is that body. The body who has spent countless hours in the face of God, pulling carrots out of the soil. This body has been baptized by oceans and rivers coast to coast because she said “if you want to get to know a place, get into its waters.” This is the body that dreamt of you in a cathedral reading holy scripture & woke to a red river parting my legs. This is the body who then let you go, my Sun, and buried you in earth and in heart. This body should not feel like yesterdays body, or two years ago’s body. When a dear friend was teaching me to weave a basket they said, “a basket is just a memory of pressure.”
So what is this body a memory of?
It is a memory of all the times I’ve made love.
It is a memory of all the meals cooked together
and fires knelt by.
It is a memory of every grain of dirt collected under my fingernails,
Every bead of sweat.
It is the memory of weeping on your floor as I smelled the shirts in your closet the day that you died.
It is every sun salutation and every night up too late.
It has been shaped and pressed and manipulated and loved so tenderly.
It has been looked up and down and turned inside out.
This body
I’ve forgotten
To praise
To love
To honor
To nurture
This body
I’ve remembered
To let rest
And be held
And fed
And let float weightless in the creek
This body
Is not
The same body
As yesterday
And I don’t want it to be
The same body tomorrow
I want it to be molded
By moments
Of wonder
When I get home late from the bar
Saturday night
2am
Stars
Exploding in the sky
So bright
It makes me stop
And breath in the cold
And the ecstasy
It is to be in
This body.
