The Body Poetic: 30 Poems About the Body
Beard #1
My beard makes me feel ugly and that’s why I grow it out every few months; it’s wooly, unkempt, dirty, not the sexy man-stubble of so many Hollywood stars nor lined-up and trimmed like the plethora of cute hipster Oakland boys. It’s graying, fuzzy, puffy in all the wrong places; I grow it out again and again discovering how my perception of my body and my beauty are not found in me, but in what others see. I grow it to relearn my own beauty, to find my ugliness liberating, to remember the body is a wild, wild thing and will find its own form if I just trust it.
Blood #2
Any time I got a bloody noose as a young boy, I would let it bleed, let the blood run into my mouth, turn my teeth red, drip down my chin, savor the strange metallic taste, the oily consistency, the way it would dry on my skin. ‘Blood,’ my father always threatened, ‘blood is what matters, blood is what makes you who you are.’ He’d hug me deep, whisper like a warning ‘you are my blood,’ squeezing me till I hurt, ‘you my blood.’ In the mirror, alone I’d repeat, ‘my blood, my blood,’ over and over until the words lost meaning.
Heart #3
is a complex thing: it’s muscle and fascia, it’s motion, constant, driven, it’s delicate, a bud blossoming beat by beat, it’s valves and vena cavas, it’s a fist, a grenade, a lovesong, a rock, hard and impervious, it’s ventricles and atria, it’s barren and unforgiving, the heart is a house with multiple structures, a home, a mouth, moist and welcoming; it’s a lullaby, a dirge, a song chanting over and over, alive, alive, alive.
Nipples #4
My mother never wore a bra; instead, she regularly wore shirts that said, ‘flat is beautiful’ or ‘boobies are for babies,’ her little breasts hanging low, her nipples arrogant, hard, always poking through the material. It embarrassed me. When I was 15, I asked her as she was getting dressed why, why she didn’t even own a bra. She turned to me shirtless and asked, ‘do you know the reason men have nipples?’ ‘No,’ I shrugged. She said, ‘to remind them of what they could have been.’
Anus #5
I was 17 when she told me to touch her asshole. Until then sex was a series of blind pawings and then intercourse. She was the first to turn on the light or throw off the covers. She was the first to show me sex without shame. ‘Look at it,’ she said, her small pussy, hidden in the untrimmed black pubic hair. ‘Look,’ she rolled over and spread her asschecks like they were divine. I learned to look, to touch, to ask ‘like this’ until her asshole -- relaxed and unashamed -- opened wide and infinite like the possibilities of consent.
Sweat #6
When I was 10 I would sit in the sun, willing myself to sweat just like the men in my life, my father who when he rough housed with us got so sweaty I could never hold on to him despite how hard I tried or the older boys in the neighborhood, sweating on corners waiting for the younger kids to walk too close, to hold us down till we remembered where we belonged. Sweating made the man. So once beads formed and fell down my forehead, I would saunter into my house and say to my younger brothers, ‘look, look who’s a man now’ and before they could answer just walk away.
Toenails #7
My daughter wanted blue and green on every other nail. ‘Of course,’ I agreed like it was the most natural request possible. ‘Everyone should have different color nails,’ I smiled and painted green toe, pink finger, pink toe, green finger. It was when she asked me if she could paint mine that I balked. ‘ No,’ I said, ‘because…’ And I stopped. I looked at her. I thought because I’m chicken shit, because of playing basketball at the park, because of drinking at bars, because of talking to other men. ‘Ok,’ she said and walked away like she realized everything I just said was a lie.
Clavicle #8
Go to the mirror. Take off your shirt. Proceed to breathe in once deeply and then raise your hands and extend your arms out in front of you like you are pushing something away. Push. Remember to breathe through the whole process. Be open for possibilities and discovery. Then face your palms towards you and slowly retract your arms so that your fingertips come to rest on your clavicle. Whisper the word ‘clavicle.’ Feel how it makes your whole mouth work. Trust it. Run your fingertips along your clavicle’s hardness again and again. See how it leads you every single time to the soft spot of your throat. There is a lesson in this. Learn it.
Elbows #9
Picture this: your lover laying down on their back, butt and legs spread out perhaps in a field of undulating grass or on a bed atop the covers bathed in afternoon sunlight. It doesn’t matter really. Picture your lover’s head facing forward, shoulders back, chest open to the sky, arms at right angles. This is supplication. This is an act of trust. This is the dangerous animal presenting its soft underbelly to you. This is only possible because we have elbows that bend, that allow hugs, the ability to touch our own faces, to support the weight of others even while we support our own.
Nostrils #10
Sometimes I forget the beauty of my nose, the pleasure afforded me by simply inhaling, mouth closed, nostrils contracting, pulling in air. I fiend for smells: the fecund tartness of tomato plants, the salty hint of saliva on neckskin after making out, the oiliness of movie theater popcorn, the mapley smell of an armpit right before it turns sour. Too often I let my vision dictate my response to the world; for today, at least, I plan to breathe in everything around me.
Earlobes #11
Some people when they first hold their child, still slick and warm from the womb, count toes or stroke fingers, making sure all are there, everything is in order. I understand this, I do, but for me, holding my son for the first time, I couldn’t stop touching his ear, his little lobes, furry and warm, like something plucked, fresh. I leaned in close and whispered my welcomes to him, quiet, delicate, I took his earlobes into my mouth, shuddered with the feeling of wanting to eat him whole, something perhaps only a parent can know.
Back of the Knee #12
too often the back of the knee is ignored; when was the last time you stroked it like a lover’s hand, caressed it like an erogenous zone, a place imbued with desire? When was the last time you touched it in appreciation, giving thanks for all it does for you? Do you know what yours looks like? What subtle smell finds a home there? Could you tell yours from another? If you’re like me, probably not because bodies sadly are still mysteriously foreign, but don’t fret; there is such delight in self-exploration.
Skin #13
The sexiest part of a body surrounds us: the way skin pulls tight around an ankle, the tautness along the lower back, the way it folds into itself running along the creases of the palm, so familiar, the way it bunches around orifices beckoning enter, enter, the way skin smells after hiking or sleeping, the freckles, the moles, the scars it bears so that when I look at you I see the constellations of a night time sky reminding me of divinity.
Stomach #14
The phrase ‘to stomach it’ is literal as much as it is metaphorical. The stomach can hold more than you can imagine. These are things people have actually swallowed: genital piercings, pride, their own foot, childhood toys they refused to share, kale, wedding rings, evidence, self-esteem, poison, their own tongues, keys to front-doors and getaway cars, chewing gum and various coins, the abuse of parents and lovers, pets, bitter pills and a taste of their own medicine.
Spine #15
To have a backbone means to be strong and persist and survive. It’s the opposite of spineless. In case you forgot how strong you are, here are things people have withstood: guilt, a friend while chickening fighting, front lines, picket lines, compromise, bullies, the passage of time, broken hearts, big heads, bigger egos, trauma, a child, a lover, your own self, and the weight of the world. With a spine, you always have the ability to stand up. To stand tall. To stand.
Legs (for Boston) #16
Legs to stand on. Legs buckling but rising again and again. Legs bending to help the hurting. Legs running through fire, through flame to the finish line. Legs part of the whole. Legs moving one after another unstoppable. Legs to carry us home. Legs to remember the body is stronger than we know and can heal and forgive.
Scars #17
Your scars are your stories. I used to try to hide mine, cover them up. Looking at them always disappointed me, reminded me of hurt, ugliness, things I can’t control. Until one afternoon on the couch, my son says, ‘tell me what happened here,’ touching my ankle discolored from a burn suffered 20 years earlier. I say, ‘it’s an ugly scar I got as a teenager.’ He smiles and says, ‘that’s a scar-y story’ and laughs. There is something beautiful about a child laughing at his own joke. But it was so true. Today I happily talk about my scar-y stories; they’re reminders of how the body heals and how the body remembers. It’s important to remember: the surgery scar on the inside of my left wrist, the scar on the right side of my upper lip, one just below my right eye, on my scrotum from a vasectomy, the ones embracing my heart.
Body Hair #18
I get weak in the knees at the sight of a woman’s unshaved armpit, the glimpse of her unadulterated bodiness, her humanness. I want to ask permission to touch it. I want to be told ‘maybe’ and made to wait. Or the delicacy of a femstache embodying the androgyny of beauty. Or legs and hair and pantyhose all mashed together. I want to slide them off and then stroke the hair with my hands making it all go in one direction. I tell myself, like a prayer, trust your desire; in it, you will find your freedom.
Teeth #19
It’s awkward to ask to be bitten. Hard. Beautiful teeth leaving such glorious bruises. The sensation of teeth on a forearm, teeth on the back of the neck, the inner thigh, the calf, exposes some primal desire to be enveloped and loved the way a mother dog picks up her puppy by the scruff and places it down safely. Bite me, I say. Meaning love me. Meaning hold me. Meaning take me home.
Bellybutton #20
Of all the body parts, the bellybutton is the most comforting; it’s primal, an origins story; it’s the actual place you were fed before you could feed yourself, a bodily reminder of your connection to you mother, of your dependency on another person. Every time I see a bellybutton, I look into the person’s eyes, imagine the baby they once were, imagine exactly where they came from: a mother’s womb.
Tongue #21
Things I have touched with my tongue: my brother, this drunk woman’s unshaved armpit after a dare at the very first Coachella concert, jalapeños, soap when my father tried to wash the word ‘fuck’ out of my mouth, fine wine, really, really cheap wine, the soft moist dirt hidden under stones, bugs accidentally inhaled while biking, assorted body parts, lifesavers, toothbrushes, three small furry animals, my mother’s nipples, my father’s silence, my own fear, my shame, my remorse, my pleasure.
Eyes #22
I want to look into your eyes. And when I say eyes I mean the look of fear you have at being abandoned. I mean the look of desperation that comes just before you birth your child. I mean the look you get when you want to be saved. I want to see these things because when you look into my eyes I cannot hide who I really am: the boy who killed a puppy, the brother who sometimes protected and sometimes ignored his siblings, the man who loves like he’s afraid to get hurt. I want to look each other in the eyes without shame or fear. I want to see you seeing me and discover what is found there.
Bellies #23
Bellies like Jell-O jiggly and soft bellies fuzzy like a ripe peach in summertime bellies that like to get bitten bellies that move with laughter bellies that kiss each other when bodies hug bellies that are full of love and Chinese food big bellies haughty and arrogant like teen super models bellies unafraid to peek from under shirts or over waistlines bellies with stretch marks like racing stripes bellies like happy Buddhas bellies to rub and kiss and spoon bellies like pet dogs never judging you and wanting only to be loved.
Bones #24
Sometimes I want to strip all the flesh away, see the solid parts of you, the things you’ll leave behind: hold your phalanges in my palms, thank the radius and ulna, trace the curve of vertebras arching ever-so-slightly to create your spine, lovingly finger your pelvic girdle, while pronouncing ilium, ischium, pubis, listen for the sound your trochanter makes popping into your hip bone socket, stroke the periosteum along your femur, imagine the taste of marrow just beneath, caress the cranium, whisper to your stirrup, anvil and hammer over and over until I make my intentions clear: I love every thing that hold you together.
Perineum #25
is secretive, elusive like the yeti; the perineum spotted only when someone trusts you enough to lay themselves bare, defenseless, willing to reveal what few get to know: it’s color, whether it’s scarred from childbirth, if it’s lightly covered in hair; treasure the chances to touch it, massage it, kiss it, the body’s soft spot, rich in nerve endings. Say it. Say perineum. Hear the way the word ends just like the most sacred of mantras: om. Realize some body parts are spiritual and the only faith needed to discover divinity is to spread your own legs.
Uvula #26
It was a curiosity that lead to me cleaning up vomit in the kitchen; it’s impossible to feel your own uvula without other distracting sensations: fingers on your chin, the jaw opening wide, the stretch of the tongue. So my friend and I decided to touch each other’s uvula, the moist red protrusion we all grossed out on. We were 13 and looked for any reason to touch other people’s bodies. Garrett on his knees, my finger elongated, my other hand resting on his forehead; I reached in trying to avoid the walls of his throat and suddenly felt it: surprisingly firm, erect, warm. Garret looked up at me, eyes wide, as vomit erupted from his mouth. He slowly got up and went home. We never spoke of it again. But I still can feel the warmth of his mouth.
Lips #27
As a teenager I freaked out on kissing. What makes one person place their lips on the lips of another person? I would ask my girlfriend to do it slowly. To feel lips on lips without passion or desire. To just feel the weight, the pressure of mouth on mouth. To find out how lips fit together when heads slightly tilt and eyes shut. Did people kiss because it was symbolic for sex, because it couldn’t get you pregnant, because body contact was too sexual? Today, I realize people kiss because it’s so simple and human and because nothing is more intimate than touching the inside of someone.
Muscles #28
The number of muscles in the human body depends on how you define muscle, whether voluntary or not, whether smooth, skeletal or cardiac. To make matters worse, I propose adding these to the list: the muscles needed to try again and again, the muscle it takes to speak out even when you are scared and the muscle it takes to stay your tongue, be quiet, and just listen, the muscle to love again even though you know it will be painful, the muscle to let go and trust, the muscle to lay yourself bare to others, the muscle it takes to be alone, the muscle needed to love yourself.
Hands #29
There is a line in the movie The Neverending Story that made me a poet, showed me how language can mean so many different things at once. ‘They look like such big strong hands.’ Meaning looks can be deceiving. Meaning what he thought to be true was not true. Meaning he could not hold on to what he was trying to hold on to. Meaning no matter how strong you are, you are not strong enough. Meaning sadness, failure, loss. I look at my hands now, strong and capable. I remind myself to hold on but to not squeeze. I remind myself to say goodbye even while my hands still touch you.
Body #30
Dance with your whole body, fight and love and move with your whole body, raise kids with it, resist with it, get high with it, touch me with all of your body, heal each other with your body, learn to speak with your body, learn your body, mourn the dead with your living body, take time to nurture your body, get wild with your body, share your body, get naked in front of the mirror and look at your body, look and turn and turn and look and then toss the mirror because you must learn to trust and listen to your whole body because the truth the body knows is all you will ever need.
My beard makes me feel ugly and that’s why I grow it out every few months; it’s wooly, unkempt, dirty, not the sexy man-stubble of so many Hollywood stars nor lined-up and trimmed like the plethora of cute hipster Oakland boys. It’s graying, fuzzy, puffy in all the wrong places; I grow it out again and again discovering how my perception of my body and my beauty are not found in me, but in what others see. I grow it to relearn my own beauty, to find my ugliness liberating, to remember the body is a wild, wild thing and will find its own form if I just trust it.
Blood #2
Any time I got a bloody noose as a young boy, I would let it bleed, let the blood run into my mouth, turn my teeth red, drip down my chin, savor the strange metallic taste, the oily consistency, the way it would dry on my skin. ‘Blood,’ my father always threatened, ‘blood is what matters, blood is what makes you who you are.’ He’d hug me deep, whisper like a warning ‘you are my blood,’ squeezing me till I hurt, ‘you my blood.’ In the mirror, alone I’d repeat, ‘my blood, my blood,’ over and over until the words lost meaning.
Heart #3
is a complex thing: it’s muscle and fascia, it’s motion, constant, driven, it’s delicate, a bud blossoming beat by beat, it’s valves and vena cavas, it’s a fist, a grenade, a lovesong, a rock, hard and impervious, it’s ventricles and atria, it’s barren and unforgiving, the heart is a house with multiple structures, a home, a mouth, moist and welcoming; it’s a lullaby, a dirge, a song chanting over and over, alive, alive, alive.
Nipples #4
My mother never wore a bra; instead, she regularly wore shirts that said, ‘flat is beautiful’ or ‘boobies are for babies,’ her little breasts hanging low, her nipples arrogant, hard, always poking through the material. It embarrassed me. When I was 15, I asked her as she was getting dressed why, why she didn’t even own a bra. She turned to me shirtless and asked, ‘do you know the reason men have nipples?’ ‘No,’ I shrugged. She said, ‘to remind them of what they could have been.’
Anus #5
I was 17 when she told me to touch her asshole. Until then sex was a series of blind pawings and then intercourse. She was the first to turn on the light or throw off the covers. She was the first to show me sex without shame. ‘Look at it,’ she said, her small pussy, hidden in the untrimmed black pubic hair. ‘Look,’ she rolled over and spread her asschecks like they were divine. I learned to look, to touch, to ask ‘like this’ until her asshole -- relaxed and unashamed -- opened wide and infinite like the possibilities of consent.
Sweat #6
When I was 10 I would sit in the sun, willing myself to sweat just like the men in my life, my father who when he rough housed with us got so sweaty I could never hold on to him despite how hard I tried or the older boys in the neighborhood, sweating on corners waiting for the younger kids to walk too close, to hold us down till we remembered where we belonged. Sweating made the man. So once beads formed and fell down my forehead, I would saunter into my house and say to my younger brothers, ‘look, look who’s a man now’ and before they could answer just walk away.
Toenails #7
My daughter wanted blue and green on every other nail. ‘Of course,’ I agreed like it was the most natural request possible. ‘Everyone should have different color nails,’ I smiled and painted green toe, pink finger, pink toe, green finger. It was when she asked me if she could paint mine that I balked. ‘ No,’ I said, ‘because…’ And I stopped. I looked at her. I thought because I’m chicken shit, because of playing basketball at the park, because of drinking at bars, because of talking to other men. ‘Ok,’ she said and walked away like she realized everything I just said was a lie.
Clavicle #8
Go to the mirror. Take off your shirt. Proceed to breathe in once deeply and then raise your hands and extend your arms out in front of you like you are pushing something away. Push. Remember to breathe through the whole process. Be open for possibilities and discovery. Then face your palms towards you and slowly retract your arms so that your fingertips come to rest on your clavicle. Whisper the word ‘clavicle.’ Feel how it makes your whole mouth work. Trust it. Run your fingertips along your clavicle’s hardness again and again. See how it leads you every single time to the soft spot of your throat. There is a lesson in this. Learn it.
Elbows #9
Picture this: your lover laying down on their back, butt and legs spread out perhaps in a field of undulating grass or on a bed atop the covers bathed in afternoon sunlight. It doesn’t matter really. Picture your lover’s head facing forward, shoulders back, chest open to the sky, arms at right angles. This is supplication. This is an act of trust. This is the dangerous animal presenting its soft underbelly to you. This is only possible because we have elbows that bend, that allow hugs, the ability to touch our own faces, to support the weight of others even while we support our own.
Nostrils #10
Sometimes I forget the beauty of my nose, the pleasure afforded me by simply inhaling, mouth closed, nostrils contracting, pulling in air. I fiend for smells: the fecund tartness of tomato plants, the salty hint of saliva on neckskin after making out, the oiliness of movie theater popcorn, the mapley smell of an armpit right before it turns sour. Too often I let my vision dictate my response to the world; for today, at least, I plan to breathe in everything around me.
Earlobes #11
Some people when they first hold their child, still slick and warm from the womb, count toes or stroke fingers, making sure all are there, everything is in order. I understand this, I do, but for me, holding my son for the first time, I couldn’t stop touching his ear, his little lobes, furry and warm, like something plucked, fresh. I leaned in close and whispered my welcomes to him, quiet, delicate, I took his earlobes into my mouth, shuddered with the feeling of wanting to eat him whole, something perhaps only a parent can know.
Back of the Knee #12
too often the back of the knee is ignored; when was the last time you stroked it like a lover’s hand, caressed it like an erogenous zone, a place imbued with desire? When was the last time you touched it in appreciation, giving thanks for all it does for you? Do you know what yours looks like? What subtle smell finds a home there? Could you tell yours from another? If you’re like me, probably not because bodies sadly are still mysteriously foreign, but don’t fret; there is such delight in self-exploration.
Skin #13
The sexiest part of a body surrounds us: the way skin pulls tight around an ankle, the tautness along the lower back, the way it folds into itself running along the creases of the palm, so familiar, the way it bunches around orifices beckoning enter, enter, the way skin smells after hiking or sleeping, the freckles, the moles, the scars it bears so that when I look at you I see the constellations of a night time sky reminding me of divinity.
Stomach #14
The phrase ‘to stomach it’ is literal as much as it is metaphorical. The stomach can hold more than you can imagine. These are things people have actually swallowed: genital piercings, pride, their own foot, childhood toys they refused to share, kale, wedding rings, evidence, self-esteem, poison, their own tongues, keys to front-doors and getaway cars, chewing gum and various coins, the abuse of parents and lovers, pets, bitter pills and a taste of their own medicine.
Spine #15
To have a backbone means to be strong and persist and survive. It’s the opposite of spineless. In case you forgot how strong you are, here are things people have withstood: guilt, a friend while chickening fighting, front lines, picket lines, compromise, bullies, the passage of time, broken hearts, big heads, bigger egos, trauma, a child, a lover, your own self, and the weight of the world. With a spine, you always have the ability to stand up. To stand tall. To stand.
Legs (for Boston) #16
Legs to stand on. Legs buckling but rising again and again. Legs bending to help the hurting. Legs running through fire, through flame to the finish line. Legs part of the whole. Legs moving one after another unstoppable. Legs to carry us home. Legs to remember the body is stronger than we know and can heal and forgive.
Scars #17
Your scars are your stories. I used to try to hide mine, cover them up. Looking at them always disappointed me, reminded me of hurt, ugliness, things I can’t control. Until one afternoon on the couch, my son says, ‘tell me what happened here,’ touching my ankle discolored from a burn suffered 20 years earlier. I say, ‘it’s an ugly scar I got as a teenager.’ He smiles and says, ‘that’s a scar-y story’ and laughs. There is something beautiful about a child laughing at his own joke. But it was so true. Today I happily talk about my scar-y stories; they’re reminders of how the body heals and how the body remembers. It’s important to remember: the surgery scar on the inside of my left wrist, the scar on the right side of my upper lip, one just below my right eye, on my scrotum from a vasectomy, the ones embracing my heart.
Body Hair #18
I get weak in the knees at the sight of a woman’s unshaved armpit, the glimpse of her unadulterated bodiness, her humanness. I want to ask permission to touch it. I want to be told ‘maybe’ and made to wait. Or the delicacy of a femstache embodying the androgyny of beauty. Or legs and hair and pantyhose all mashed together. I want to slide them off and then stroke the hair with my hands making it all go in one direction. I tell myself, like a prayer, trust your desire; in it, you will find your freedom.
Teeth #19
It’s awkward to ask to be bitten. Hard. Beautiful teeth leaving such glorious bruises. The sensation of teeth on a forearm, teeth on the back of the neck, the inner thigh, the calf, exposes some primal desire to be enveloped and loved the way a mother dog picks up her puppy by the scruff and places it down safely. Bite me, I say. Meaning love me. Meaning hold me. Meaning take me home.
Bellybutton #20
Of all the body parts, the bellybutton is the most comforting; it’s primal, an origins story; it’s the actual place you were fed before you could feed yourself, a bodily reminder of your connection to you mother, of your dependency on another person. Every time I see a bellybutton, I look into the person’s eyes, imagine the baby they once were, imagine exactly where they came from: a mother’s womb.
Tongue #21
Things I have touched with my tongue: my brother, this drunk woman’s unshaved armpit after a dare at the very first Coachella concert, jalapeños, soap when my father tried to wash the word ‘fuck’ out of my mouth, fine wine, really, really cheap wine, the soft moist dirt hidden under stones, bugs accidentally inhaled while biking, assorted body parts, lifesavers, toothbrushes, three small furry animals, my mother’s nipples, my father’s silence, my own fear, my shame, my remorse, my pleasure.
Eyes #22
I want to look into your eyes. And when I say eyes I mean the look of fear you have at being abandoned. I mean the look of desperation that comes just before you birth your child. I mean the look you get when you want to be saved. I want to see these things because when you look into my eyes I cannot hide who I really am: the boy who killed a puppy, the brother who sometimes protected and sometimes ignored his siblings, the man who loves like he’s afraid to get hurt. I want to look each other in the eyes without shame or fear. I want to see you seeing me and discover what is found there.
Bellies #23
Bellies like Jell-O jiggly and soft bellies fuzzy like a ripe peach in summertime bellies that like to get bitten bellies that move with laughter bellies that kiss each other when bodies hug bellies that are full of love and Chinese food big bellies haughty and arrogant like teen super models bellies unafraid to peek from under shirts or over waistlines bellies with stretch marks like racing stripes bellies like happy Buddhas bellies to rub and kiss and spoon bellies like pet dogs never judging you and wanting only to be loved.
Bones #24
Sometimes I want to strip all the flesh away, see the solid parts of you, the things you’ll leave behind: hold your phalanges in my palms, thank the radius and ulna, trace the curve of vertebras arching ever-so-slightly to create your spine, lovingly finger your pelvic girdle, while pronouncing ilium, ischium, pubis, listen for the sound your trochanter makes popping into your hip bone socket, stroke the periosteum along your femur, imagine the taste of marrow just beneath, caress the cranium, whisper to your stirrup, anvil and hammer over and over until I make my intentions clear: I love every thing that hold you together.
Perineum #25
is secretive, elusive like the yeti; the perineum spotted only when someone trusts you enough to lay themselves bare, defenseless, willing to reveal what few get to know: it’s color, whether it’s scarred from childbirth, if it’s lightly covered in hair; treasure the chances to touch it, massage it, kiss it, the body’s soft spot, rich in nerve endings. Say it. Say perineum. Hear the way the word ends just like the most sacred of mantras: om. Realize some body parts are spiritual and the only faith needed to discover divinity is to spread your own legs.
Uvula #26
It was a curiosity that lead to me cleaning up vomit in the kitchen; it’s impossible to feel your own uvula without other distracting sensations: fingers on your chin, the jaw opening wide, the stretch of the tongue. So my friend and I decided to touch each other’s uvula, the moist red protrusion we all grossed out on. We were 13 and looked for any reason to touch other people’s bodies. Garrett on his knees, my finger elongated, my other hand resting on his forehead; I reached in trying to avoid the walls of his throat and suddenly felt it: surprisingly firm, erect, warm. Garret looked up at me, eyes wide, as vomit erupted from his mouth. He slowly got up and went home. We never spoke of it again. But I still can feel the warmth of his mouth.
Lips #27
As a teenager I freaked out on kissing. What makes one person place their lips on the lips of another person? I would ask my girlfriend to do it slowly. To feel lips on lips without passion or desire. To just feel the weight, the pressure of mouth on mouth. To find out how lips fit together when heads slightly tilt and eyes shut. Did people kiss because it was symbolic for sex, because it couldn’t get you pregnant, because body contact was too sexual? Today, I realize people kiss because it’s so simple and human and because nothing is more intimate than touching the inside of someone.
Muscles #28
The number of muscles in the human body depends on how you define muscle, whether voluntary or not, whether smooth, skeletal or cardiac. To make matters worse, I propose adding these to the list: the muscles needed to try again and again, the muscle it takes to speak out even when you are scared and the muscle it takes to stay your tongue, be quiet, and just listen, the muscle to love again even though you know it will be painful, the muscle to let go and trust, the muscle to lay yourself bare to others, the muscle it takes to be alone, the muscle needed to love yourself.
Hands #29
There is a line in the movie The Neverending Story that made me a poet, showed me how language can mean so many different things at once. ‘They look like such big strong hands.’ Meaning looks can be deceiving. Meaning what he thought to be true was not true. Meaning he could not hold on to what he was trying to hold on to. Meaning no matter how strong you are, you are not strong enough. Meaning sadness, failure, loss. I look at my hands now, strong and capable. I remind myself to hold on but to not squeeze. I remind myself to say goodbye even while my hands still touch you.
Body #30
Dance with your whole body, fight and love and move with your whole body, raise kids with it, resist with it, get high with it, touch me with all of your body, heal each other with your body, learn to speak with your body, learn your body, mourn the dead with your living body, take time to nurture your body, get wild with your body, share your body, get naked in front of the mirror and look at your body, look and turn and turn and look and then toss the mirror because you must learn to trust and listen to your whole body because the truth the body knows is all you will ever need.