Unfinished Business

We have not yet mapped the liver's grief, 

nor named the frequency the spine holds 

when it braces for bad news. 

The knee still bends without our understanding it. 

The heart solicits no permission to break.

And still we reach past the body 

toward the thing that wears it — the soul.

Is the soul a frequency, 

Wiggling through our flesh? Or,

Particles, some willing, 

some indifferent, 

some pulling toward the light 

the way roots pull toward water 

without knowing why?

Is it magnetic — a field that neither begins nor ends but only shifts?

We want to measure it. 

We want it to have weight. 

We want to know where it goes.

We who have charted constellations 

but not our own canyon floors beneath our own ships — 

We who name the moons of Neptune 

but cannot say what moves 

in our deep trenches 

where the starfish makes its home in the dark, 

unhurried, unwitnessed, complete.

We reach always past the threshold 

of what we have not yet finished knowing.

Why?

Still asking.

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