A Minor(!) Disappearance

I thought I had lost my soul
somewhere between men
in beds that held my body
more easily than they held me,
in the blue light of a phone
I kept turning toward my face
as if silence might change
if I looked at it long enough.

I thought I had lost my soul
in becoming understandable.
Less difficult.
Less hungry.
I learned how to swallow questions
without making a sound,
how to call absence space,
how to call indifference fear,
how to make a religion
out of almost.

I thought I had lost my soul
in all the versions of me
I offered up for love.
The one who could wait.
The one who did not need too much.
The one who knew better
and stayed anyway.

I thought I had lost my soul
because every leaving
felt like proof.
A door closing.
A name disappearing.
A body turning cold beside mine.
I kept mistaking grief
for revelation.

I thought I had lost my soul
until Japan began
with rain against train windows,
temple roofs black with water,
incense caught in my hair,
my own reflection moving
through cities
that had never heard my name.

I thought I had lost my soul
walking alone at night
under signs I could not read,
eating at counters
where nobody asked
who I belonged to.
My hands smelled of soap,
coins, cedar, smoke.
My body was tired
in a clean and ordinary way.

I thought I had lost my soul
on the way up a mountain.
The air grew thin.
My legs shook.
The clouds opened and closed
around me.
There was nothing romantic
about breathing that hard.
Nothing symbolic
about putting one foot
in front of the other.

I thought I had lost my soul
in Koyasan,
where the trees stood older
than every man
I had ever cried over.
A bell sounded somewhere
behind the mist,
once,
then nothing.

I thought I had lost my soul
and the strange thing was
the silence did not answer me.

It did not tell me
I was strong.
It did not tell me
I was healed.
It did not tell me
everything happens for a reason.

The rain kept falling.

I thought I had lost my soul
when I looked at myself
in a dark temple window,
reflection crossing my face,
and realized
I had spent years
asking mirrors made of men
to tell me who I was.

I thought I had lost my soul
but there I was
soaking wet, sore,
hair smelling faintly of smoke,
feet blistered,
heart still foolish enough
to want things.

I thought I had lost my soul.

Maybe I had only left it
in too many hands.

And somewhere between
the mountain,
the temples,
the rain,
and the last train home,

it stopped asking
to be returned.

It just
walked beside me.