God of My Body

(after Ellen Bass)

Craving comfort, she seeks the soft, the warm, the sweet
Craving movement, she seeks the stretch, the twist, the breath, the glide.
Craving sanity, she seeks the still, the quiet, the space, the peace.

All my prayers are as empty as my shelves and
all my shelves are crowded with the selves I’ve tried on
and discarded but saved for someday.
In case they may be useful.

The twelve year-old who found purpose by
reading Gone With the Wind over and over and over again.

The eight year-old who prayed to get sick so she could
stay home from school and avoid the bullies.

The teenager slow-dancing with strangers,
fighting for relevance.

The fortysomething re-learning how to date,
still invisible but not fighting it anymore.

These are people I barely know but we all
go to church on Friday mornings,
waving pens in supplication and awe.

The God of my Body demands nothing but
fresh air and the occasional shower.
I can’t even give her that most days,
yet, she rewards me with
deep breaths, deep sleep, awe.

I wonder, sometimes, if she
talks to the God of my Soul
and what, if anything,
they have to say.