Body series 9 (a reimagining of mixed metaphors)

"I treat my body like a temple" she says

And her words spin into the air thoughts of high mountain monasteries

The chill of the air upon a pristine rock garden

No traveler has ever before laid eyes on.

I think of thin mountain air that will not nourish the travel's lungs:

Leaves her trying to breathe a full breath.

I think of tall strong walls and a closed gate

And the grey of eternal winter.

"I also treat my body like a temple," I agree

But I mean that I will welcome

Anyone who knocks on my gates in good faith.

My body is a temple with huge doors and huge windows

To let the light in.

My body is a temple in the biggest city on the best traveled road you know.

My body is the sort of temple where

The spires are worn smooth and polished by many hands

It is the sort of temple that holds an abundance of

Plush pillows lounging on my pews.

It is bejeweled by stained glass windows

That transforms all light into God.

My body shelters weary travelers with storied hands

Who hold my warmth like a miracle,

And echoes high priests who recite its history with their clever tongues

from the pulpit,

And echoes back the sweetest songs of the most beautiful women from the beautiful curves

Of its ceilings and walls.

My body is a temple and I would delight in offering

Any pilgrim who kneels before me a temporary salvation.