Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

“We Are Lashed to Our Body”

by Lois Marie Harrod

Linda Gregg

Perhaps. If we are lucky,
if we have wax in our ears.

Perhaps Ulysses knew
such chatter
since he was a child–

the voice that is there,
the voice that is not,

sick enough to hear half songs
whole enough to know
they were his own.

He is the one
that makes shore

but even then
the old horsefly
sirens through his brain.

The same schizo debate
that crashes our bones

upon the rocks–
so we must lash our songs
to our bodies–

and breathe
as long as we can breathe.