This Is My Body

That Master was a Fool who said, 'I am not this body.'
I Am this body and what is beyond it.
I Am this body and the cosmos, its glow.

I am this body and the womb who bears me.
I am this body and the seed who ignites me.

My soul is foam, my sorrow rain, my sexual longing the sun.
My breath is the vast blue stillness that watches me dance.
I am the golden beams that shower my bones with muscle.
I am the night infusing my atoms of marrow and fat.


My brain I am, my tears I am, my belly, my buttocks I am.
My foot I am, taking responsibility for the footprint
among the ferns and cedars of unborn childhood.

I am the food and the excrement, the salty God-ocean
in a sperm, the galaxy of numberless worlds in the pupil of my eye,

I am the herd of caribou wandering through
the desolate winter of a teardrop.

I am the swan of Hamsa settling on the membrane of a memory
in the lobe of my cerebrum that traps moonbeams in dew.

I am the eye of the tiger watching a vein pulse in my throat,
the wind over the rose-lit desert of my left ventricle
in the evening between two heartbeats,

the broken covenant of work and fruit
in the withered garden of my palm,
the dust bowl of the hypothalamus,

the cry of wolves before dawn in the frozen valley of my ribs,
one of them already stolen by the god of absences
to make a woman out of me.


I am the heron standing all morning in the wetland
where rainbows of petroleum dazzle the mind of the frog.
I am wheeling flocks of returning geese who cannot find their pond.

I am the golden eagle over Mount Ranier
caught in the mysterious updraft of heat vents
about to spew upon Seattle the dismal retribution of my mud.


I am the gnarled three-legged toad of my own hand,
my shoulder a stranded sea-lion wounded by propellers,
my heart a Winter cocoon that opens too soon for wings.

My liver is a beached gray whale where the tide
is too warm and too high.

My allergic coughs are confounded dolphins
who can't get back to the sea.
My groin is a bonfire
surrounded by carnivorous eyes.

Tribes drink war-mad juices from my thyroid groves,
dancing naked for visions in my adrenal cortex.

I am this body's negative as well as its fair flesh:
I am the hollow in all my bones, the tunnel for blood,
the cavern death explores as food, moving back to its planet.

I am widening lips smeared with delicious silt from the garden,
my long intestine packed with seed-laden soil,
fragrant as a murdered god to fertilize both rose and thistle.


I am the beckoning of the tide in the neuron of desire,
the eye a vacuum for seeing, the nostril quivering
for the scent of meat,taste bud and follicle,
hollow as trees for ancient sap.


I am the forked tongue of the hungry dendrite,
unfathomable black hole of the old reptilian brain
flickering with galaxies of cortisone that stream toward the pituitary.

I am the patient glistening dragon of the whole body,
both male and female, neither yours nor mine
to possess or define, whose tail is heavenly Andromeda,
whose belly is Arcturus.


I am the core of the warm Earth, whose beautiful name is Hell.
I am the crown of stars on the Goddess of darkness.
My wings are purple nebulae in measureless curves of her distance.


Deva lokas are but photons in a single inhalation of my prana.
Thousands of Indras I exhale, my breath the milk ocean of Vishnu,
Mount Meru an electron, spun from a capillary of these lungs.


What Master of fools ever said I am not this body?
Only sinners believe that matter cannot become God.

I celebrate the chaos of skin, and what is beyond
the fractal horizon of skin.
I celebrate my body as Adam unfallen,
and God in your body as Eve.

I celebrate wine and its thirst, food and its hunger.
I celebrate the morsel and the crumb. I digest suns.

I celebrate what is ordinary, and it sparkles. I consume all.
I celebrate the whole electric scandal of the formless in this form.
I celebrate common bread.