This Body
When I stepped ashore in this body
I was recognized at once
and given a name.
My bones were smaller, but the shape
of the cheek and the chin
are the same.
This is the only body I know: this color
my eyes, this color my skin.
Every scar is mine.
I have become as tall, as slim, as old
as I am. My voice has carried the weight
of what I had to say.
Words were scattered along the way: words
on gravel roads, in hallways and staircases.
Words on a wire.
Somewhere in a field, my hair. Somewhere in a lake,
my skin, some rooftop where my gaze rested,
some star, a wish.
This is my address on earth: temporary, fragile,
a name in the phonebook,
at the moment, alive.
