I read the body’s discourse in every creature:

the way it lists or limps,
the way it holds itself upright
or folds in half along some
hidden hinge.
The odors it exudes,
like fruit ripening in the dark
or in the depths of a paper bag.
Every hair tells of its sorrow.
Every broken nail and which side
its hair is parted: of the unrelenting
stories of war.  It shuts the door
and latches the windows
before it comes to nuzzle
at the softening light.
It doesn’t want others to see
how it sheds mottled skin—
how difficult it is to leave itself
behind in order to sit
simply and without
need for further apology.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Interpreter.

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