Sigma Tau Delta at JMU






am not

my body, too much like

a painting to your eyes,

or a statue hewn of marble,

or maybe like a fire in winter:

always changing, but always

willing to keep you warm

as I burn, as I burn.

My body is

a thing-- pretty thing-- thing to admire;

a sweet gift you never asked for, maybe merely

some new trinket to pile upon your great collection

of things that can be locked away. And me? Who am I 

if I am not my body? What am I if my body is a case--

like that which holds a violin? Iā€™m not a violin, either,

so am I less deserving, then, of being held by you?

Must I become a mere extension of my body,

or can I remain, proudly encased by it,

hidden by it, but still not it?

May I remain myself,

like a violin encased by something

that may be opened and emptied out-- but the violin can still

exist in any other case-- just as a man can sit in his car and not become his car,

and when that car breaks down, he is free to leave it on the roadside and walk away,

and he still remains a man-- remains completely himself, car or no car-- so why

am I not myself at all? Why am I only seen as this body-- my body?--

even though there is something else within, something nameless

and formless, like a jinni imprisoned in some magic lamp,

so why am I waiting to be released by a love

that only touches

the encasement of what I am?

For a love that was not, and never will be, known

For a love that was not, and never will be, known