I swear to you that body of yours gives proportions to your Soul somehow
to live in other spheres; I do not know how, but I know it is so." ~Walt Whitman
"I am not this body”: that is the lie.
You cannot be anything else.
Your incarnation has no edges.
It's fractals entangle the stars.
You just need to fall in love
with all your numb and nameless
invisible organs, the untouched layers
of your sacred skin.
Some people never caress
the subtlety of their molecules
or taste the succulence of their own
bones, and so believe they must
transcend their marrow to touch
God's tongue.
But every particle of you is rounded
laughter rippling the vacuum,
so vast the moon's a bindhu
in your eyebrow,
constellations pour from one
cup of your heart to the other,
and that little ayin soph, the sun,
tumbles through your lungs looking
for the unknowable silence of your name.
Down your neurons worlds swirl
tipsy with nectar, sending dawn
and evening across each synapse.
The softest wave of your anatomy
is the fabric of space itself.
Therefor glorify God in your body.
Let matter be a corridor of open gates
where lightning swims into a bee wing,
moonbeams weave bittersweet leaves
of watercress by snow-melt streams,
and comets fall into a serpent's eye.
Be the alchemy of avatars.
Don't wait for Jesus:
make dust dance and rocks sing now!
Let the asymptotes of your humanity
that Danté glimpsed, shimmering
in the void, curving Christ-ward
to approach the infinite, be crucified
at the core of every proton.
Your eyes are black holes of wonder.
Out beyond the chalice rim of night,
Andromeda kneels to drink
the wine of embodiment
from your mass-less gaze,
while here in the garden's greening
pull of gravity, you move as sap
in every stem, defiant and graceful.
Now put on your garment of loam,
woven from Radha's glances,
spun from the flute music of Shyam.