The Body Song

By Michele Hirning (circa 1994)

The body is a simple being
all skin and beat
it knows what it wants
it wants to win
another evening's silent retreat
from working limbs and
keeping eyes open into
repairs of the cell and well
regulated flush and heat.
It is easily satisfied by
meals and baths
a little coffee and nicotine
a little drink, a little something sweet.
Without love and longing
it is simply sexual:
a quick and clean machine.
This is all just good plumbing.
It is carefully maintained, organized
and roundly neat.
And I trust it, implicitly.
I know that we can only hope to be
good animals, nuzzling each other
mechanically.

The body is a cursed being
all sin and rage
it knows what it wants
it wants to be thin,
flawless like a celebrity,
it looks for escape
from mirrors and magazines
from age and the bars of this
osteoporotic cage.
It is never quite satisfied by
food - a war
to wage - either too-full or starving
these calories plumping up the blood stream.
Without lust or language
it is sickly sexual:
a silent and violated scream.
This is all just good upbringing.
It is carefully restrained, dressed-up
and placed upon a stage.
And I hate it, adoringly.
I know that we can only hope to be
good girls, killing ourselves
softly.

The body is a beautiful being
all song and light
it knows what it wants
it wants to begin,
to be healthy, to live long and
it will fight for a
space to dance, to dream and write
to be well-fed and go to
bed and wake up newly bright.
It is sometimes satisfied by
what it is
a body but also soul and mind
not separate, not wholly wrong or right.
Without lies and limits
it is serenely sexual:
a deeply delighted me, an irony.
This is all just good laughing.
It is lovingly uncontained, humored
it makes mistakes but it lives without fright.
And I accept it, unconditionally.
I know that we can only hope to be
good bodies, trying to live
soulfully.