Forgetful Body

Can a body rebel against itself?

Can a hand say, “I don’t need you, arm!”

and a leg say, “You’re too dirty, foot!”

Can two cells in an eye argue and go their separate ways?

A doctor would say yes, I think.

It’s called autoimmune disease.

Part of the body decides that another part has to go.

Not, “You are diseased, foot, and you need healing,”

but, “You are the disease, foot, and you have to die.”

Bodies that can’t recognize themselves don’t do too well.

They tend to fall to pieces.

And nobody walks well missing a foot.

Should I stop there?

Do you know what I’m talking about?

Come back here, brother, I’m not done loving you yet,

and we’re just getting started rehearsing for eternity.

Did you forget who I am?

I know I sure did.

How do we remember?

How do we spot where nail-pierced hands have stitched us into one?

I know that sounds like Frankenstein’s monster,

but we’re really Galatea,

and our Pygmalion is also the head of the beauty He’s making.

Can we follow what His hands are doing?

Can we be those hands, and clasp, and say hello again,

and trace where the arms go up into the shoulders,

and merge into the chest,

which surrounds a heart that beats love?

Hello brother, sister,

my own flesh and blood,

it’s been awhile,

but I do remember you,

and I’m sorry for telling you to die.


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