Belly, thank you, holding whatever grief I feed on.
What to do with the blue corn chips, the almonds, the late-night bread?
Arms, thank you, hanging on until you crumble.
Neck: stiff, afraid of plunder.
Spine and ribs, all my bones, lusty, involved.
All pouches, blossoms, chutes, sinews, cul-de-sacs, seedpods waiting for harvest, thank you.

The son you bore, beautiful fruit moved far away,
drove up and parked in front of the house at Christmas.
How giddy, how foolish the body
leaving the kitchen, the food roasting or boiling or waiting,
belly under a red apron,
the body running to the front door, down the steps,
metatarsals shoeless on the driveway.

Iris and pupil and retina,
red cones and blue cones working as if to remember this:
his body in his gray coat standing beside the car,
keys in his hand,
his arms reaching to hold when your arms reach to hold.
Body: storehouse of the infinite,
giddy, foolish, forgiven.