When I learned to talk, I couldn’t do it without slurping.

And the idea of staying alert all the time, I didn’t like that.

I didn’t like growing fast and getting leg cramps either.

But, you know, once you get through growing up,

you start falling apart.

That is why you can get pretty chummy

with the old body. You sit there rubbing your sore feet

and singing to your body,

the good old body with its lousy lower-back base

and one leg longer than the other

and bulbous knees

and ankles that swell in the dampness

and skin with licorice blots

and nerves that crisscross

and fire at your brain like electric wires shortcircuiting.

People just can’t let go, though. At least I can’t.

It’s not life I’m holding on to

-- it’s the body, I can’t let go of the body,

right down to the crinkle and stink and creak.

I’ve been to all the fights for the body,

I am not going to quit now.

I fight for my hearing,

trying to fake it on those tests.

I even fight for my toenails,

trying to make them grow straight.

That’s why, when I get to go outside,

I celebrate, I put my back up against a tree and scratch.