Body

I saw my soul dangling outside my body,

It was caught at the base of my skull and
flapping in the wind like a weathered flag.

It would occasionally try to return,

but a body shaped by danger

will resist even its own spirit.

It’s true that we arrive porous.

But early on, the body calcifies around absence,

sealing itself off, and
mistaking its own hardening for shelter,

leaving our spiritual livelihood hanging there—

unmoored,
beating against the air,

reaching for a gentle place to call home.

I often do not know where it is I end

and another begins.

Some wounds do not bleed,

but disperse.

Some wounds need alcohol, excess, or oblivion

to quiet the sharp, exposed ache

of a spirit left flailing in the open.

I needed a body.

What is dissociation

if not the soul pacing outside a locked house?