Body Hope

The body says, "It is finished!"
And, sulks like a pony-tailed girl
refusing to budge against a doorframe.

Or, crosses arms like an old woman
mad at the intruder who ate all
of her hot bread prepared for church.

The body creaks, "I can't any longer!"
And it slumps like a boy who went
to bat and swung, swung, swung out.

Or, staggers like the old guy who
thinks he can make it from his
wheelchair to the bathroom alone.

Sometimes the body can rejoice
with climbing a mountain path
or riding a bike with no hands

Or casually walking down grocery
store aisles without one care, or
dancing with convulsing kids.

It's a wait in a freeway line,
though. When cars move one at
a time, speed up, slow down, honk.

The destination, a hospital bed, or
at home, when the body has one
last final whisper before arrival.

The body, transformed, renewed,
breaks cocoon and zooms into
countries, dances into ballrooms,

Swings into luminous matter,
runs toward all-eternal wholeness
enters and, upon a Christmas finally come,

Squeals off rheumatoid complaint,
shoe-shuffles, hip-hops, sashays
everlastingly to mountain holiday songs.

TWW 8/3/12