From this poem on I forswear
talking about the body as if it is a house for the soul—
with windows for eyes and walls for the skin of cells—
or a cathedral or a cave, as if the body is a container for something finer.
There is nothing finer than the body
of the woman who drew the first bison on the walls of the cave,
or the body of the man bent
over his cruciform plan for the cathedral,
or the body of the child
who drew away from companions playing tag in the meadow
and wandered down a narrow trail to the lake
and dreamt of a house floating on a great flood that covered all the earth,
and so I will not compare the jaws to doors swinging
on hinges, or the top of the mouth to a roof.
When my imagination fails me,
I’ll name the body plainly by its name.
Plan for this poem-in-progress