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.