The landscape of my body
holds stories that will never be told,
perhaps even words that
I have never known–
ancient dictionaries hidden in
the stars of my genes,
shaping, deleting, evolving
as I move through this life.
My heart hold the raucous crashes
of Indian rickshaws,
and the first caw caw caw
of birds calling at five am,
the smells of fresh garlands and tea
amongst the goats and cows roaming
the dusty streets.
This belly holds my grandmother’s recipes,
fresh ginger and garlic and golden turmeric
full of love and family and lingering
over empty plates, while
elders wash their gnarled hands
with water poured from silver cups.
This mind carries the wisdom of medicine,
the blood of doctoring,
the thirst to serve beyond myself and
the reach of my two hands.
While these feet run miles around the world
like the feet of my father,
blistered, thickened, yet
happy and well worn and used up.
These cells are the DNA
of generations of ancestors,
reaching beyond space and time to
where I cannot see, and yet.
Also there lies the seeds of my children,
their souls and spirits,
somehow contained in the architecture of
my blood and bones.
The body knows so much more than
this brain could ever hope to understand.
Within lies dust and Earth and broken roads
that somehow led to me, and
onward to the future,
wherever the journey may take me,
through all the hours and days
I have been granted.
And so I try, I try
to release the quest for a
the desires to exist in
a different sort of vessel,
a disrespect for what only
this singular body
can hold and live.
My surface terrain of
wrinkles and creases and scars
are the marks of all that is deep,
rising to the surface,
showing that I was once