Every day the body works in the fields of the world Mending a stone wall Or swinging a sickle through the tall grass- The grass of civics, the grass of money- And every night the body curls around itself And listens for the soft bells of sleep. But the heart is restless and rises From the body in the middle of the night, Leaves the trapezoidal bedroom With its thick, pictureless walls To sit by herself at the kitchen table And heat some milk in a pan. And the mind gets up too, puts on a robe And goes downstairs, lights a cigarette, And opens a book on engineering. Even the conscience awakens And roams from room to room in the dark, Darting away from every mirror like a strange fish. And the soul is up on the roof In her nightdress, straddling the ridge, Singing a song about the wildness of the sea Until the first rip of pink appears in the sky. Then, they all will return to the sleeping body The way a flock of birds settles back into a tree, Resuming their daily colloquy, Talking to each other or themselves Even through the heat of the long afternoons. Which is why the body-the house of voices- Sometimes puts down its metal tongs, its needle, or its pen To stare into the distance, To listen to all its names being called Before bending again to its labor.
Posted on: Mon, 28 Oct 2013 09:05:44 +0000
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