There is shame (I’ve heard) in things that concern the body
I try to forget its call and yet I yearn the body
Ash is air. Water expands with light. Flowers decay.
Hold these secrets in your hand when you burn the body.
Degrees gather mold in the old, neglected cupboards
Now, your mad dance is a bid to–what? Learn the body?
“The body is sacred”, poor fool Whitman forgot this fact:
Sanctity has a stiff price. One must earn the body.
In bedsores and in boredom, life passes by grimly
Play the radio. Remember to turn the body.
Like new leaves in rain, I turn green in your passion
I fear this love will blast the soul, even spurn the body.
When you are gone, I will wear black and roam the streets
Let them call me mad; I will not return the body.
*First published in Mosaic, a Unisun anthology
1 Comment
March 21, 2009 at 3:57 pm
a really nice, well-crafted poem on the body. i didn’t miss the similarity of the form with aga shahid ali’s poem ‘ghazal’ on arabic.