Should my body be a temple
I do not want it to be
a high cathedral in Rome.
I do not want its walls.
I do not want it to be
a protestant church.
I want my body
as a temple
hidden in the deep Amazon forests.
Because my body is... Wow.
My body is magic.
My body is tangled tree tops,
hair-you-can-wash-with-just-water.
My body is waxy walls,
skin shining from jojoba oil.
My body is vines tangling,
limbs which swing freely from
any place.
My body is sacred
on my own terms.
Ink is not to touch the surface.
Ink is not to cover the walls.
I want them
plain
and brown
and muddy
like reviving clay
mixed with rosewater and honey.
My temple is only to be marked by
tornadoes
and rains
and catastrophies.
Should my body be a temple
it will be honest and rough and brutal.
Like the rainforest it will be
damp
with the dark ghosts
running freely.
I do not wish for my body immortality.
Let my temple fall apart
under uncaring skies,
set ablazed by the sun,
blown away by the wind.
Let it waste away under
the violence of nature
for should my body be a temple
let it be at peace with the earth and the cosmos.
That is the only way I know
my body would be effortless and wise.
Not behind stone and marble.
Not inhabited by a choir of angels.
Not decorated in gold and silver.
Should my body be a temple
let it be a wild animal scream
in the middle of the night.
Let it be texture,
sound,
pulse,
life,
then death.