#10/30 - 2015

[prompt from here: "Write a will in which you give away the parts of your body. Be as literal or creative as possible. Check out WebMD for inspiration on preexisting parts & ways you can use them, OR feel free to invent the parts that haven’t been discovered yet that you know exist (i.e. the backup heart, the third eye, etc.)." I also thought of Maya Angelou's "Phenomenal Woman" when I was writing. ]

A Last Will And Testament

Of Your Body.

Pieces given piecemeal

to whom you are survived by--

those who touched and felt and mattered.

Starting from the ground

up

since that is where it all will

end.

I will my feet to my father,

who taught me they could heal me

instead of simply move me through the world.

I will my calves to my horses,

my custom-width riding boots 

finding my footing and my roots. 

I will my thighs to my mother,

who taught me my strength is more than muscle,

my womanhood is more than numbers.

I will my hips to my bharatanatyam auntie 

who taught me to understand them for real dancing

and not just the confusion and gyration of the age.

I will my bones to my brother,

who knows what they really are

and will not suffer ghosts.

I will my stomach to my college roommate,

who changed the way I saw it

and improved the way I filled it.

I will my ribcage to my high school sweethearts,

as I learned one after the other

the importance of keeping things in.

I will my broad shoulders to my first job,

where I first picked up something

too heavy for my gender.

I will my earlobes to my best friend from birth,

who pierced hers two days before me (not cool)

and I followed her shine long after that. 

I will my hands to my writings:

I gave all with them

and marked them for posterity.

I will my wrists to my derby wives,

the children's zipper bracelets that brought us together

and the grip that hasn't let us go.

I will my heart to my Bear,

if he will keep it for a while longer,

as he has built so much of me with it.

I do not will my pain to anyone:

it is my own, it has taught me much,

and it will lie down with me.

I do not will my voice to anyone:

but my Touchstone taught me to use it

and showed me her own when it hurt. 

I do not will my Self to anyone.

That will be here long after

I am gone.