Messages From My Body

My body confides in me in grudging ways, with little murmurs and signs, each trying to get attention without snapping its fingers in my face, like faint, mysterious radio signals from (inner) outer space that escape detection often, comprehension always, small aches that ghost through my body and the already over-populated radar of my consciousness, as if keen on being missed, rashes like miniature night bloomers on the vast landscapes of my limbs and torso, origins unknown, non-rashes, equally tiny, anonymous things, that surface but don’t stay long enough before sinking back into the realm of the forgotten, eyelid twitching out a code decipherable by no man. I receive frequent messages, hinted, insinuated, encrypted. My body has its own mind. I’m trying to be a better reader.