Down into the marrow
Where the bones bleed
And the blood is born
The boiling cauldron
Of body memory
This is not a grave
Or an epitaph
Inscribed on
A skeletal cross
This is the piercing
Of thorns
Growing from the
Thicket of my
Arching ribs
This is the embrace
Of tendril vines
Growing from the
Scooped melon of my
Ripe pelvis
Living the words
Unwritten
And unspeakable
As they slice
Into the immediacy of
Each second
In heartbeat
In breath
The body is born
That the soul might live
The stories
Of penetrating
And encompassing
Joys and sorrows
All at once
In every moment
This is what it is
To be alive
To feel
