Naming the Places

I rest my hands on my body.

This is Belly,

where I round out,

where my breath goes down to,

and flows back up —

Belly, my centre,

below the navel

and just above the swinging hips.

Belly is where I feel solid.

Belly is where I am safe.

Here now is Thigh

spreading firm and warm 

beneath my palm,

settled, substantial, 

not to be ignored —

on which I sit,

with which I walk.

If Belly is nurture,

Thigh is support.

Mother and Father they are

to the child of the mind

which is flighty, and doesn't 

know how to sit down.

I rest my hands on my head,

feeling for Brain —

but Brain is behind the scalp,

and mind anyway is not there,

it is flying.

I bring my hands

to Chest and Midriff —

left across thymus,

right over solar plexus.

These are the centres 

of love and will.

I take a breath,

and think to draw down the mind

but it doesn't come.

These are my Hands.

I rest them on my body.

They are comfortably warm,

somewhere between 

firm and gentle.

I feel my edges,

I feel my bulk.

Also my mind

comes down now into my Hands.

My Hands are writing a poem.

Submitted for Poets United's Verse First: Places you love.