Remember My body

This weekend began with a thunderstorm just after I returned from work. Rain fell in sheets over everything and I remembered the monsoon in Bangladesh viscerally–something flowed brighter in me. Out on my balcony, the potted Spider Lily, a descendent from my great-grandmother’s garden in Dhaka stood against the rail, unbowed against the falling water. I imagined it rejoicing somewhere in its ancient plant heart. I think sometimes about the things we remember without knowing we remember them or where we remember them from. And I think of the memories I am planting in my children, the things they will know that I never told them. I am working on this poem for them. I don’t often post poems in progress, but thinking about this–about the ways we speak and share memory through our bodies–brought so much consciousness to my weekend, I’d like to share it with you. Thank you for reading it, and for writing to it–how do you want your body to be remembered?

when you are slipping and seek something to grasp
remember the ledge of my clavicle
never fall without a fight

when you long for shelter
remember the threads of my fingers woven into yours
the web we made and remade

when obstacles in your path loom large
remember my lifting grip
under the hinge of your arms

when you must endure without being overcome
remember the firm line of my forearm,
the sticky hook of my elbow

when your sorrow’s clamor is unignorable
remember the scoop of my palm pressed to your ear
the dignity in surrender

when you need a place to rest
remember the soft landing you found
in the flat between my shoulder blades

remember my body
it was the first thing you knew