In Search of a Body

To record         I thought         was all
but the eye belongs to a body–
mine    back then         a camera obscura        
keen to record everything–you
for instance     your curls
freckles            the tang of your sweat

the way you stood at a stove
stirring tall pots of beans
in a dank soup kitchen            where
tracked snow melted in pools

I confess my bafflement         Pointed
the wrong way on Clark Street
I linger in a car and dwell
in Jimmy Smith’s Sermon       the organ
pulsing through door panels               

The body that waits for us
the one we find and learn
at last to inhabit          is a kind
of destination              unmapped
slower              more tremulous          
but not merely an old truck     left
finally to rust among hulks

When it fails us we curse it
as though we could find another                   
as though our steps haven’t   
year by year     hammered
our feet into their last shapes

Photo by Sarah Cervantes on Unsplash