"Tincture" by Andrea Gibson read and celebrated by Ali Mezey

"TINCTURE" by Andrea Gibson RIPImagine, when a human dies,the soul misses the body, actually grievesthe loss of its hands and allthey could hold. Misses the throat closing shyreading out loud on the first day of school.Imagine the soul misses the stubbed toe,the loose tooth, the funny bone. The soul still asks, Whydoes the funny bone do that? It’s just weird.Imagine the soul misses the thirsty garden cheekswatered by grief. Misses how the body could sleepthrough a dream. What else can sleep through a dream?What else can laugh? What else can wrinklethe smile’s autograph? Imagine the soul misses each fallingeyelash waiting to be a wish. Misses the wristscreaming away the blade. The soul misses the lisp,the stutter, the limp. The soul misses the holy bruiseblue from that army of blood rushing to the wound’s side.When a human dies, the soul searches the universefor something blushing, something shakingin the cold, something that scars, sweepsthe universe for patience worn thin,the last nerve fighting for its life, the voice boxaching to be heard. The soul misses the waythe body would hold another body and not be two bodiesbut one pleading god doubled in grace.The soul misses how the mind told the body,You have fallen from grace. And the body said,Erase every scripture that doesn’t have a pulse.There isn’t a single page in the bible that can wince,that can clumsy, that can freckle, that can hunger.Imagine the soul misses hunger, emptiness,rage, the fist that was never taught to curl—curled,the teeth that were never taught to clench—clenched,the body that was never taught to make love—made lovelike a hungry ghost digging its way out of the grave.The soul misses the unforever of old age, the skinthat no longer fits. The soul misses every single daythe body was sick, the now it forced, the hereit built from the fever. Fever is how the body prays,how it burns and begs for another average day.The soul misses the legs creakingup the stairs, misses the fear that climbedup the vocal cords to curse the wheelchair.The soul misses what the body could not let go—what else could hold on that tightly to everything?What else could see hear the chain of a swingsetand fall to its knees? What else could toucha screen door and taste lemonade?What else could come back from a warand not come back? But still try to live? Still tryto lullaby? When a human dies the soul movesthrough the universe trying to describe how a body trembleswhen it’s lost, softens when it’s safe, how a wound would healgiven nothing but time. Do you understand? Nothing in space canimagine it. No comet, no nebula, no ray of lightcan fathom the landscape of awe, the heat of shame.The fingertips pulling the first gray hairand throwing it away. I can’t imagine it,the stars say. Tell us again about goosebumps.Tell us again about pain.From Lord of the Butterflies (Button Poetry, 2018) by Andrea Gibson. Copyright