a poem, 12/20/10
It is odd, isn't it, to slip feet into shoes?
to run a comb through hair that grows from this, a head.
It is a curious thing to clean teeth belonging to me,
to know that this is the only set I have left, so brush well.
Hands for grasping at the end of these arms,
and, a ring! on one of these fingers-- saying
I belong with that human over there--
Now that is almost too much.
I (I am an I!) feel air currents in this dwelling,
I smell the food from supper.
I feel tired.
Restrained in a body, confined to both time and space,
with a pen and a voice,
I am dust and breath of God made woman.
Finite. Perishable goods.