By and By
And when I die, my body will be like cartography. The chafing of my pelvis, of loves come and gone. Lines strung across my face, the laughter, and always the darkness.
The arches of my feet will tell of how well I’ve carried. A survey of my hands, revealing bodies held close and long.
The shifting of these bones will bear witness to the ache. Skin mounted across muscle, of fear, and of savage courage.
And when they come for my heart, like the negro spiritual, it will “tell the story...”
of love. Of unimaginable love--overwhelming and bending this body’s riverbanks.
The arches of my feet will tell of how well I’ve carried. A survey of my hands, revealing bodies held close and long.
The shifting of these bones will bear witness to the ache. Skin mounted across muscle, of fear, and of savage courage.
And when they come for my heart, like the negro spiritual, it will “tell the story...”
of love. Of unimaginable love--overwhelming and bending this body’s riverbanks.
