My body was given to me
by the moon and tide
and I won’t give it to the screen, when I am outside

my body was given to me
by the intelligence of a tree
reaching for that branch of gadgets
doesn’t reach me

my body was given—a gift
refusing to not fully occupy it is questionable
focusing on a device in the forest is objectionable
trees communicate for those in attendance
neglecting what they illuminate is a loss—
perfunctory engagement with their expressive moss

my body flows
its waters sing
I prefer its notes
to the robot’s ding

my body is mine
not a tech company’s find

my body is in close communication with gravity
forking over my attention to escapist fodder costs
heavily

my body was given by chemistry
my parents’ attraction conjured me
to build this home of ancestry—
this home, my body

how does it work
how does it move
how did it function
during my impressionable youth

my body now
of bodies before
every bend, a door
to story

my body tells tales, robust and tender
rhythms and tones, all senders—
messages I endeavor to discern
meanings surface in return
on their own line

my body is mine, for a brief time
sacred, borrowed
the thought of losing it to a device conjures sorrow

my body is here
no buttons dare ask me to forget, lose track and stare
into the simulation abyss, unaware
there, my senses beg to be free from machine mediation

 


© 2017 Pamela Sackett
photos: Jeff Rogers