Chapter Two
Subj: Thinking of you
Date: 99-01-17 21:56:42 EST
From: FlyGuy@aol.com
To: PrncessBB@aol.com
BB-
*BIG* surprise-I was thinking of you. Its a terrible
affectation. (VBG) It happens more and more often. Ill be
watching a movie or TV; see something out my window, hear some
music, or, as in this case, read something, and think of you, and
want to talk to you, crave talking to you. Its a genuine
hunger-for communication, for connection, unlike anything
Ive ever known.
Anyway, the *real* reason Im writing, not that I need a
reason, is to share what I read with you, what reminded me of
you:
The Soul
Who knows how they get here,
beyond the obvious.
Who packaged the code
that provided the slate for her
eyes,
and what about the workmanship
that went into the fingers
allowing such intricate
movement
just months from the other side?-
Who placed with such exactness
the minute nails on each
of the ten unpainted toes?
And what remains
beyond eye and ear, the thing
most deeply rooted in her body
the thing that endlessly blossoms
but doesnt age, in time
shows greater vitality? The thing
unlike the body that so quickly
reaches its highest movement
only
to begin, with little hesitation,
the long roll back, slowing all the way
until movement is administered
by devices other than those devised
by divine design? The ageless thing
we call soul, like air, both
resident
and owner of the
bodys estate.
But her soul, only
partially
unpackaged, sings
through the slate that guards it,
contacts those of us waiting here
with a splay of its soft,
scrutinizing fingers.
Her soul is a sapling thing,
something green, dew-damp
but resolute, entering this world
with an angels thumb pressed
to her unformed body at the
very last,
a template affixed to her body
when they decided it was time
to let her go, for her to come
to us
and their good work was done.
An angels thumbprint, a signature, her soul.
-from Ploughshares
by, Daniel Halpern
Farewell, fair Princess.
Angel, Ill be thinking of you.
-FlyGuy
Jax sent the mail and turned off the computer and desk lamp. Striding across the room, toward the bedroom, he stopped to take-in the view of the city. It never phased him how, from one day to the next, his surroundings could change so drastically. A week ago, he was in Moscow, two days ago, at the family compound in Alaska, and now, he was calling a new town his home: Port Charles, NY.
(the poem is an excerpt from Her Body, by Daniel Halpern,
found in The Best American Poetry 1997)