... not really a sonnet however ... more like the eggshells of one that fell
Sonnet of the body
As though it were one's body that now prayed,
body, strapped in its belt of flesh,
death hastening, this inward crumbling
pain taking up all space, not felt but feeling,
one's being deeply wedged and vast and sad.
As though it were these bones of yours
that felt the hovering and heard the swish
of the Lord's garment just beyond fingers’ reach.
As though the soul, harboring this
buzzing discontent of yours,
your hunger to transcend, as though the soul
were a box without a lid,
in which the body laid its prayers, wrapped
like old love-letters, in a cord of flesh.
*
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