Behold, my body! It is resilient, malleable. It thrums within a universe of fluids, cells, structures, generosity.
It breaks and mends. It is scarred and perfect. This is my body. It’s been opened … fingers have touched my brain. Cells have gathered into tumors like black holes revealing themselves only after growing large enough to interrupt nearby stars — my uterus, the round planets of my breasts, the deep reaches of my brain.
My body lives. It’s been subtracted from. It’s been added to: A piece of metal here, some screws there, scooped out places rebuilt with plastic pouches filled with a liquidy substance. Imperfect bridges to a perfect past have been installed inside this hollowed-out body.
The body looks nearly right. Nearly original.
Even on its own, my body changes like the sky changes every day at dusk. It is filled with red sunsets and the deep shudder of a rising sun. It is alive with streams and rivers that bubble from its wellspring of hope. It is filled with mystery and majesty. With every breath, it celebrates itself.
It drinks in wine … and lattes … and doesn’t worry how long it will live, but rather how well it will serve. Inside its wall of crumbling skin, it tumbles and twirls like a girl.
It’s me. It’s my body; its hair now generously graying, its skin puckering into itself. Still, It sparkles like a bright star over the desert.
It’s my body. MY body. My body.