If I lie down, ear against

the forest floor, eyes

closed, mind still,

and listen, really

listen, I hear your heart,

steady and certain

in its pursuit of freedom,

pounding through all

those wild places you

must never

stop exploring.

Spangle the sky as they arrange

and rearrange, pieces of black sheen

inside a kaleidoscope, shifting

the mirrors with each wing stroke,

dizzying the horizon, to create

designs completely unplanned

and inimitable, simply there

for the noticing.

This body I nourish with vegetables

and balanced meals, this body

I move and stretch to keep strong

and limber, this body I nurture

with sleep and rest,

this body that propels a bike

across miles and over hills, this body

that climbs mountains and hauls

half its weight up trails, this

body that has worked exactly

how it is supposed to work

to heal and support,

this body has decided to rip

a hole in the muscles right below

the belly button, allowing

things that should stay inside

to poke out and create a lump

where it used to be smooth,

invoking fear and disgust

and utter disbelief that

this body—this body that now

needs a surgeon and a procedure

to make things okay—this body

is not entirely within my control.

“Anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you.”

                                                          -David Whyte, from “Sweet Darkness”

 

Too small,

like the lovely and stylish sweater

you find on the thrift store rack,

glinting from its space

between faded blouses and well-loved

T-shirts, the sweater you try on,

and even though it’s tight

in the shoulders

and short in the arms,

it’s such a nice color and so soft, and

there’s the possibility

of washing it in cold water

and trying to stretch it out,

the sweater you end up buying

and wearing to work on Monday,

spending the whole day tugging

the sleeves down and feeling

like a boa constrictor is wrapped

around your torso, the sweater

you hang back in your closet anyway

and wear a few more times, hoping,

just hoping, you might shrink

or it might stretch,

the sweater

that never quite fits.