CALL ME BELOVED

the sprain in my back surfaced again today,
a thrice familiar friend since I slipped on ice
four februarys ago – it became the high note
in the chorus of aches I enjoyed this afternoon.

the line has blurred and I’m unsure of whether or not
my body is rebelling against me or I against it –
I’ve forced my appetite into a tidy corner
under the banner of self control, it’s capricious
as my moods and fits well into my general motto –
to do without.

today it is my body placed under the daily lens.
I study my long, swooping lines in the mirror,
much like I often do to my face – staring
as if locked in a constant attempt to recognize myself.

I remember first grade,
where I formed a mental picture of myself, what
I was sure to look like when I was thirty –
as if it were in my control, a decision to be made
like what to eat for breakfast.

to compare, from what I can remember of it:
I’ve turned out taller, significantly less blonde
(why I thought I would be forever a mystery)
and eight year old self will be disappointed to learn
my hair never did get tamed – it’s still unruly,
prone to erupt and expand like curling wisps of smoke
if tampered with, as if to comb it is some grave insult.

I’m watching my hands as I type, and thinking,
much like I often do, that these fingers racing
across the keys are mine – from time to time
they appear to belong to a stranger, the wrinkles
and creases unfamiliar and foreign. slowly
I’ll recognize them like a long forgotten friend
seen in passing, remember they’re the same hands
that have always been – this is a wonder to me.