I play a furiously combative game of phone tag with my body.
When my body finally picks up, call waiting beeps me out of line.
My body informs me that I am too elusive and not committed enough to my internal infrastructure.
There is an uncomfortably long [estimated 437 minutes] bout of silence between my body and I on the telephone.
My body is clearly housing a collection of disgruntlement.
I call up 1-800 Flowers and order a bouquet of
just because with peonies and alstroemeria.
My body sends it back without hesitation.
I try again, knowing I have over three decades to make up to my body.
I paste letters to its skin. Create melodies for poems celebrating its bones, even the broken ones.
I make my body a meal of coq au vin; it reminds me its a vegetarian.
I bake my body cookies; it tells me it no longer ingests sugar.
I pay $4,700 for an apology in the sky. But it was windy that day and by the time my body looked up,
my words had swiped themselves away.