Owning Poem by Joan Woodbridge

What you Own:

these small cells complete of life

these strands of hair to their very tips emanating holy fire

all the space that surrounds this body

this body

damp fields

and all the precincts of my soul

limbs that stiffen and ease

curl and unwind

the uppermost moment of each inner thigh

the skin that folds against these eyes

these eyes

the point of surrender at the back of my neck

each imperfection

and everything I hate about myself

this breath

this entire continent



What I Own:

some golden light

one dark line that moves raggedly down

from navel to precipitous edge

one head thrust well back

several kinds of eyes

hands

hands made to worship

a certain spiraling groundless free-fall

lost words whispered into places beyond my hearing

words

words that drive deep

centuries deep