Without

"The awakened and knowing say: body I am entirely, and nothing else; and soul is only a word for something about the body."

a cool floodlit night. deep enough for birdsong.

if i set my hands at my ribcage and take a measure of
breath, (strength and woman-self,)
then hope is something about
the fit of my palms
about my ribcage. a
spell of as-
certainment.

"The cultural project of reducing the female person to an objectified body has resulted in a disembodiment of the female person and a depersonalization of the female body. Parallel to this separation from the body runs a consequent separation from agentive possibility."

being this strength and breath,
both breathless and yet inimitably solid.
what does the span of my palms
here at my ribcage
contain?
there is nothing insubstantial about the weight of my stride
across this earth.

i sleeping peaceful-bellied under a close ceiling of goose-down.
and body i am entirely.