“I’ve been here seven years?”
Jeb’s thinking about his age.
Interesting perspective.
“I’ve been on Earth for seven years?”
I nod. Think about my own 37 revolutions around the sun. It’s the longest I’ve been committed to anything. This respirating. Heart beating.
I guess if you’re reading this, you’re dedicated too. Holding steady with this human-living thing.
Until we’re done…
O I say, these are not the parts and poems of the Body only, but of the Soul,
O I say now these are the Soul!
~Walt Whitman “I Sing the Body Electric”
she is but
a body
of water
waning
waxing
pulsed by the moon’s own
slow and steady
respiration
outlined by human frame
she sits on blue velour
car seats
sewn with silver stars
her celestial throne
behind an idle wheel
traffic stalled
all of these vehicles
separate
on a two lane road
longing
just to move
soft heavy skies
full of river and sea
make a bed
for jagged bolts of
lightning
her motor hums
brake pedal releases
wheels roll
three full
revolutions
stop
above
staticky synapses
fire fleeting fingers
below
Aretha Franklin
sings the body electric
through the car stereo
Dr. Feelgood’s
live
at the Fillmore
hands hold an unmoving wheel
her skin rises to meet
sound
music traces spine
this driver’s form
the conduit
through which
all senses pass
the scent of moist salt air
mixed with exhaust
the crescendo celebration of love
vibrating through
speakers
bouncing on eardrums
rattling her heart
the silver blue
cracking flashes
of illumination
the sweet taste
of a destination
three hundred cars ahead
and the pull
that tidal draw
of a shoreline swoop
the feel of sands sucking
beneath soles
strong and fast
the deepest inhalation
she can dig her heels in
hold tight
or surrender
she is electrified in stalled out traffic
goose bumps and Aretha Franklin
spilling clouds and lunar tides
breathing
with the moon
“It’s ok, mom, I’m just trying to teach you something new.”
Jeb walks over to wrap his seven-year old arm around my waist, the basketball tucked beneath his other limb.
I put my hand on top of his blonde head, which is now cresting just beneath my sternum. “I don’t think I fully get the game, hon. It’s hard when we don’t have the actual lines here.”
We’re on the street with imaginary boundaries, bouncing the ball between us as Jeb attempts to teach me the game of Foursquare.
He’s a good coach, offering enthusiastic exclamations like, “You’re good! You’re almost better than me!” at even my most simple passes. He’s convincing in his encouragement and seems to have become 30 while I’ve regressed to age eight.
There are bounce moves with crafty names: Typewriter, Cherry Bomb and Black Magic.
I try my hand at several but never find my groove.
As we wrap it up and head back down the road, we walk and pass the ball between us.
“Never give up, mom. It’s fun when you get the hang of it. I was just thinking that if you learned a new game that maybe when you were with some guys your age, you could have something you could play together.”
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