My body has its own religion,
a quiet rising gospel
the slow awakening below the belt,
blood’s quiet rebellion,
a column of warm marble
answering my mind’s ancient prayers,
body speaking before brain.
Beneath, two cloistered monks
hang in their cowled skin,
patient, tidal, heavy
with the slow labor of making.
They keep their own temperature,
their own climate,
a little cooler than the rest of me.
And the bead that forms
at the tip’s small eye
not yet the flood, but its messenger,
my body’s first confession,
clear as intention,
slick as honesty,
the yes before the yes,
the door opening inward.
Then the gathering tension
unstoppable as time
until my body breaks its silence
in long, white, shuddering speech,
saying nothing
that language hasn’t fumbled,
saying everything
the rest of me withheld.
Hi,
Life teaches you everything. Not learning from life is mistake when you didn’t utilise it.
Great lines.
Jessy Jacob ❤️
Cleverly penned, Peter. Excellent write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian