For Mary H. Lynch (12.1.47-1.27.2011) And you were always my sister…
This is not my body, this frozen ground;
no, my body is a field of flowers waking.
This is not my body, this drifting wood;
my body is a splitting sea, all brine magic and wingspan.
Not mine, not mine, this haunted ruin
that still retains the imprint of love’s busy hand,
as if given and taken to yielding lately.
This is not my body that parries the thrust,
but an easy pluck of wet like a silk ribbon trailing.
My body is a fine animal thing,
is a splash of water like children swimming,
is a roar like triumph, is a crashing of waves.
Not this brackish pool, this dull refraining of tainted drizzle,
but hard rain and thunder and the blessings of the deep.
This fallow acre, this withered bloom,
this braid of bonsai, this tortured root,
this static husk, this rusted anchor,
this castaway, this twisted wing,
this hollow sanctum, this keloid canvas,
this empty cradle, this shallow grave,
this tired soldier, this changeling vessel,
this poisoned well, this craven gesture.
This is not my body, this is not my sorrow, nor yours to bear,
these last labored gasps, this rattling choke of memories so bright.
This is only my body, this road kill, but not my precious path of light;
it’s only Love, that multiplies in its sharing, that’s truly ours for keeping.
Mine is a sun ripened grove, is a vineyard grown yet growing,
is lush evermore, is eternal, and may it keep you from grieving.
There is something we have known from the very beginning:
my soul is the only thing that was ever really built to last!