Body’s Speechless Furniture

The body of a person, living,

Is already Merwin’s Long Table,

History without words upon which

Words have been gathered. No need to wait

Until the body, like a table,

Is itself all non-speaking object.

Even the chattiest person’s bones

Hold a mute history of their own,

Inscribed by events, not languages.

Merwin wrote so fondly, lovingly

Of that old table, freighted with food

Arranged on a damask table cloth,

Discovered in a carpenter’s shop.

Who could write so fondly of their bones,

Perhaps recovered centuries on?

And is it history without words

Once words have been placed, just so, on it?

Covered, the long table of your bones,

Scarred by living’s various events,

Remains mute, the better to express,

Under table talk, bones’ loneliness.