The Body is a Question

By Veronica Tucker

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At first, the body believes
it is a container.
Then a crossing.
 

I have watched water hesitate

at the edge of a glass,
surface tension holding like breath

before a truth.
 

There are days my hands forget

what they are for.
They hover, half-lit,
as if waiting for permission

to enter the world.
 

A bird strikes the window

and leaves no mark

except a suddenness
in the room.
 

I find myself counting ribs

on a stranger,
the way one counts fence posts

in a fog,
hoping the number will mean arrival.

What we call damage

is often only a question

asked too hard.
 

The heart answers anyway,

a small muscle insisting

on repetition.