David
Chorlton
The Body
Politic
Why do these prudes fear Prakrit
poetry,
our
music, and the blunt facts of love?
They
draw back from that nectar,
yet
wince as if they taste love’s ashes.
from Not Far from the
River, Poems of
the
Gatha
Saptasati, translated
by David Ray
When the
monsoons come, everybody knows
they are
more than water.
The sky
opens daily
and lovers
rush indoors
to make a
metaphor of rain. Such delicious
tumbling
and soaking
of the
sheets. The air itself
roars
pleasure. Yet somewhere
a record is
kept
of our
encounters, on behalf of a church
whose
fathers are torn
between
being human and being celibate,
on behalf
of a tyrant
afraid we
will tire
before
doing enough work
to ensure
productivity, and on behalf
of a
president
obsessed
with controlling
our
emotions. Our files begin
on medieval
parchments
and extend
to computer printouts
with a
number for each caress.
Having
burned our books
and exposed
our opinions
the censors
grow restless
when
nothing remains to accuse us of
except the
way skin
touches skin
for the
pleasure of being alive.
It is
power’s way
to strip
the layers from our minds
until only
shame is left
but we are
happy when the thunder breaks
and clouds
are torn
apart as
easily as clothing. Oh, how we bathe
in each
other, rinsing our hands
in the
downpour, and loving
to the
music of a violin
strung with
lightning.
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d | David Chorlton has
lived in Phoenix since 1978, when he moved from Europe. His chapbook
manuscript, Places You
Can't Reach,
won the latest Pudding House competition and will appear shortly. When
not writing, he likes to explore Arizona and takes pleasure in seeking
out its wildlife. email: David Chorlton |
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