Sacred Vessel

by Justine C. Tajonera

This body is easy
to abuse:
tired beyond its limits,
eyes dimming over time,
hungers and appetites
denied or
indulged.

It is easy to forget
the difference between
this body
and my-
self.

The hands extending
towards my son
could easily be me
but is
not completely
myself.

What am I if I am
not my embrace,
my comforting words,
my endearments
and my presence?

I look at myself
in the mirror:
acknowledging the vessel
that holds
my soul,

the burden and the
privilege
of being
em-
bodied

inviting the envy of
gods and the pity
of angels.

One day, I will
take my leave
and ask nothing
more
of my body.

Until then,
I hold my palms
to my eyes, easing
the strain of
living, breathing,
remembering what is
sacred.

(Feb. 16, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/traceyholland/3504732856/

Divinity

by Justine C. Tajonera

I have never considered
that divinity lived
inside of me.

I have looked everywhere
else:
the stars, the sun,
the sky, any proof of
beauty in this
world.

I have considered that
the numinous might reside
in the grand, the majestic,
the hidden,
the deep.

As I unfold my words
and greet my husband,
my son
with a tender
word

I become aware
of the sacred.
It is not in some secret
grove or cave.
It dwells in my smallest
gesture
of kindness.

(Feb. 3, 2010)
Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/neilbanas/3301972961/

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/

Body in the Mirror

By Justine C. Tajonera

What does my skin
tell me other than
how much time
has passed?

the shape of my
belly, the scar
on my groin,
the calluses on
the soles of
my feeet

tell a story about
me
that I could
never put
into words.

There are things
that I might hide
but nothing could be
more plain than:
my happiness worn
on my bones,
my beauty,
the glowing lamp
beneath
my skin.

(Jan. 4, 2010)

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/mtraker/1432497518/