…your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.

— Walt Whitman, from the preface to “Leaves of Grass”

This is when you get lost in the remembering,
in the silent lines of the beloved’s lips and face,

in every motion and joint of the body that once was,
and not just in the nakedness of that body,

which was, yes, a beautiful thing, but also in
the remembrance of your very flesh,

in the days before jiggle and sag, which you
no longer see in the body you own now.

But in photos and in dreams, the flesh that was
a great poem comes to you, and you wish again

that you had admired it then, that you had
listened to elders who admonished you

to cherish your beautiful body, the lovers who
adored it, though you did not find it adorable.

It was, you know now. It so was.

And the surprise of this moment is discovering
that this body, the garage for your soul,

still contains the richest fluency, that someone
still gazes at you, loving the silent lines of your face—

the ones you wish you hadn’t earned, but you did,
the ones cherished by someone who loves

every motion and joint of your body
just the way it is.