CONTRACT

I am thinking of an old friend today, so I'll share an old poem.

CONTRACT

Today I chronicle the pleasures
of the body. Each ache, the headache
I woke with last night, I now
recite. Its throb in my socket,
the hand across my eyes as I pressed
myself back into sleep. I accept
the cramp, the bruised knuckle,
every toe ever stubbed.
For all of these, I give thanks.
For crow's feet, for cellulite,
for the belly and thigh, for split ends.
For the child whose bicycle tire
slammed into my shin then ran
over my foot, for the slammed shin
and crushed foot. For the child herself
I give thanks. For the traffic light.
For the rain. For my car heater
which blows only cold air. For the boy
on the black and chrome motorcycle
who swerves into my lane. For the
stitch in my back, for the hitch
in my knee, for the gut's rumble,
for the flare of a rash. The rushed heart,
irregular periods, fading eye.
The mammogram. The hangnail.
Each new freckle I scratch across
the register of my years. I turn
none of it back. Even what I forget
and the curse because I forgot
I welcome as evidence of breath.
I write it down. Because you are dead,
I chronicle the body and call it
pleasure. I don't forget you.

This poem appeared in Pontoon 7 (2004)