The Stolen Parts
I can remember being embalmed and left for dead,
a museum piece, a cast-off,
my entrails, head and heart carefully put aside in jars,
and what was left, wrapped for safe keeping
and locked away,
a safe kind of history,
quiet and so close to death it did not matter.
And yet, here I am,
discovered in the desert, so wizened
I had to be reminded I still lived,
unwrapped and refilled, the stolen parts
still so vibrant, they surprised me,
their return a gift of God and love,
unexpected and unearned,
a miracle punctuated with perfume
that has nothing to do with funerals or finality.
About this poem.
Like most of us, I have had places in my life where I was so low and broken I may as well have been dead, at least emotionally and spiritually.
And yet, here I am. God is good. God is good indeed.
The picture, and the picture from my earlier poem today, both were taken at the Albany Institute of History and Art