Borrowed

By Justine C. Tajonera

I've heard of borrowed time
but that's not all we borrow.

I look at my hands,
my feet,
I feel the movement of
my shoulders,
the perfect swing of
a femur, moving me forward,
a ball joint in my hips,
animated.

Synapses fire away as
I write these words.

Is my soul really mine?
Is the fire in my belly,
the holy pyre of my mind,
the light between my eyes
really
mine?

Nothing is
really
mine.

I hold up a fist
and open it,
let go
of the things
that keep me
closed.

When I shed this body,
will I remember
this gesture
of love?

(Jan. 8, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/ashleyrosex/3604936492/