My body was against me
even at birth,
trying to strangle me
with my own
umbilical cord.

It kept pulling away.

Sometimes it loaned
itself to a lover,
no matter
my ambivalence.
Or refused itself
to one
I desperately desired.

Sometimes it added
to itself in greed,
and then shed it,
in grief.

I understand
a little more
why my father
filled a coffee mug
with bourbon
every early morning
I spent with him.

The body is quiet
when alcohol speaks.