• this body

i had seen glimpses of her
growing up
held her in my hands, even
for just a moment
of wonder
that stuck,
despite the slippery nature
of her scales.

i had heard her voice
once or twice,
but didn’t speak her language;
the way
her intangible tongue
made sounds so –
diverse.
i could whistle;
but not like her –
not like
the wind through cedar boughs
in the dead of night.

fleeting glimpses of her
lost
between walls and
bright lights
drowned
among a sea of faces
priorities tangled and
forgotten.

but now,
now
i am knowing her
the way she welcomes me,
with darkness interrupted
by only her starlight
igniting a perspective
long lost
in the blinding glow of cityscapes.

now,
i am knowing her touch
filling my lungs
with flavour;
tastes like
everything
that ever existed
salty –
as significant
as the time i take
to contemplate
this breath.

i know her
as shelter –
as trees reconfigured into a roof,
into warmth,
her decades of growth
thaw me; embrace
this body,
so death must wait
another winter.

i grow;
and i know her
as my bones –
as the oxygen in my lungs,
blood –
and well,
all of this body
i call my own –
is her.

and i learn;
from the sound of her
meeting the shore
with a thunder
that warns me the winds
are dancing out there,
and well –
all of this knowledge
i call my own –
is her.

and as i come to know
myself –
as her,
i wonder why
wilderness
was ever a stranger to begin with?

•

by april bencze