Being, by Eireann Lorsung
Being
A letter is holy. A story
is holy hands reaching out into the world.
Birds come home
across distance I can’t conceive
and live in their bodies.
Ash in the air. Every place I’ve been
is on fire with words.
One day
I throw away all my love letters
without noticing. Mountains
in the heart.
What belongs
to me? I leave the world
all the time. These arms, these
fingers, this tongue, these feet,
and their bent wings. I know
it will be dirt, the prayers
now in marrow will retake
earth. I will live inside whatever flies.
Burning, the brink of all things.
