I contracted some sort of voodoo staph infection, perhaps in Hawaii, and last week it took hold of me and brought me closer than I perhaps want to brought to issues of mortality. The inescapable subject is the body, and it is oppressive to be brought to the body again and again. You try to think "Freedom" and hear in response "Body!" You try to think "Art" and hear "No, Body!" You try to think "Love" and get "Body" and that is the real zinger, eh. That even love has to be tainted.



So here is a poem I treasure on the subject. It's by May Swenson, about whom I know not much but that she was from Utah and is somewhat recently deceased. Not to grieve, though--she did live to be quite old.



Question



Body my house

my horse my hound

what will I do

when you are fallen



Where will I sleep

How will I ride

What will I hunt



Where can I go

without my mount

all eager and quick

How will I Know

in thicket ahead

is danger or treasure

when Body my good

bright dog is dead



How will it be

to lie in the sky

without roof or door

and wind for an eye



With cloud for shift

how will I hide?