how unfair that once I thought it was clever to blame my body
for the wounds in me… —Kwame Dawes
I found that I am still a part of my body—always,
I do this. I forget again.
Today I strike my foot on the cold lip
of my tub. Today I do nothing.
For quite some time I have forgotten to give
myself over to rest. Today I lie on the floor, the ceiling
that asks nothing, white stucco and cobwebs.
I remember instead today’s perfection, each delight
I can’t quite recall. What my body was like or how
it happened. My bones. I could remember them harder,
stronger—less brittle, or the same all along
so tender and soft. On
the bedstand the sun lies down, heavy
on my books, my body, a body come to rest. I want
each time I climb from ache to ache
not to forget that this will be over
before I can know it. Perhaps memory will scatter
volumes everywhere, open
pages, spread them to age and amber, yes—
unfurling where warm hands can hold, lift, carry us
somewhere to rest.