Body Preach
The neck spoke first:
The muscles here—
so tight with the shoulders
in a way the grandmothers—
who lay down with toil
and breathed the breath
of labor, laboring,—
in a way that would be strange
even to them.
Put the head back on top,
The crown belongs above the spine,
not tipped forward of it
like a cup bleeding out
its water, its tea.
Next, those hips chimed in:
Now mind,
you must remember
to,—at least once
daily,—lie down,
draw the knees in
tight to the beating heart,
and rock, rock from side
to grateful side,
and let the hands,
those gnarled master tools,
land atop the patellas.
Circle, then,
draw spheres in the air,
let the ground kiss
the sacrum well.
Hold there.
Right Foot nudged left.
Both stammered:
Remember us?
Surgery helped
but still we need
rest and love,
all 26 bones each.
You’ll wear us out if you
refuse to slow.
And then
as if a bell rang out
across the plains of my body,
calling all directions
to some kind of chanted prayer,
I heard this in chorus,
all the parts singing out
in blessed loud unison:
WE
are not THE and THOSE.
THIS is not THAT neck,
THOSE round hips
THE gristly knees.
Each toe of right and left
are WE
which is you.
We are onecountry,
our united or divided
states of being
a referendum
on that question
you think cannot be answered
and we are tired,
a deep and mighty fatigue,
and we beg you soften now
and sleep, wake early
so we can go outside
and make a dance
in the shape
of the rising sun.
–Melinda Coppola
Art by Saimi kedolla
On Turkeys and Traffic and TIme