The Body


hums a song of men in April fields 
of women who wash their hair at sunset
The body longs to hear stories of frogs and giants
hear the wondrous spell of chimes
needs the work of pulleys
the spun arithmetic of looms
lives in a house of wildflowers
the colors of birds dancing in water
The body hungers for the slow feast of sex
scrape of pumice against hands
heals with a spoonful of rosewater
with a folk song on a ragged guitar
the body loves the copper manes of horses
rinsed with summer light
it sleeps in the milky breath of daughters
whose faces shimmer in a pail of rain.
And when it is done with what it had come to do
the body whistles an old familiar tune.​