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
all rights reserved