More than once I was told the body I inhabited was a gift
either from God or my mother or my geneology or community
and that to harm it in anyway was an affront to whichever
entity wished to claim dominon over its passage into law.
As I have grown up and out and moved on, as I have faced
the failed prospect of parenthood, the unlikelihood of office,
the daily rituals of education and the creation of community
I have come to embrace a greedy and sadworn reality.
This body, made of cheese and carrots and dark chocolates
is no more consistent than the blotches blowing across radar
or waves breaking against the everchanging beach. Sure,
these scars last and I have something called memories,
But in reality I owe only the first eight pounds of it
to my mother, the first micron of it to my father
and very little of it to the local community. I owe
as much to the cows in Ohio and to the banana trees
in Brazil, and some, perhaps the largest part or the smallest
to my choices, my decision to stay out late, choice of college,
rev of engine, my lusts, my intellect, my capacity to keep moving.
And God, what belongs there will only be known once I selfishly die.