The Body is Sublime

The body is sublime in its mystery. No amount
of fruitless questioning wipes away the wonder
of ten toes and ten fingers, eyes round and blinking,
mouth suckling, small coughs and heavy sighs,
a ready human life, already stroked by DNA like Degas
gave grace to his dancers. The body
is sublime in its ability. To survive
and flourish, to love, and to recover
the wonder of seeing a belly near bursting
with jabbing elbows and round rump, a swath
of dark hair, wet from birth, so black almost blue
under light, stolen straight from a Starry Night.
The body is sublime in its capacity to love. One
and then another, all, now outside, circling in song,
like Picasso’s tribe, never alone when hands and fingers are
locked together like knots, when little arms wrap
around necks or thighs so tight it is like melding
back into One again, a mother’s moment
to be captured by Cassatt. The body is sublime
in its strength. Arms embrace each child, hold up
a world of hope–like Atlas’s own mother must, discard
old dreams with a toss, collect small joys like flowers
in a basket, soon overflowing with delicate petals of gold,
magenta and lapis, the rarest jewels cupped in hand,
cradled carefully, securely, because the body is sublime.

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