Leaving Home

Like a girl slipping out of her clothes,
I’m leaving home, this mobile home:
head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes . . .

and eyes and ears and mouth and nose.
I combed my hair; I leave my comb
behind, a girl slipping out of her clothes.

Wherever I have gone, the body goes.
Breath by breath, it writes its poem—
head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.

Two breasts, new hips, an old story. I suppose
all books must end—but what a tome,
this girl slipping out of her clothes.

It’s poetry in motion—or is it prose?   
What finally held it up was chrome
and head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.

As yoga always finishes with corpse pose,
we drop the body, a drape of bones
like a girl slipping out of her clothes—
head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.