I stare among the women in crossed-legged seated postures and wonder if I’ll ever get there. Smiles strung along their faces. They’ve made it. They have found some place to call home. They pull love and compassion from places I’ve never heard of; from some chakra of the month. I still pull my tears back. The only colorful line up are my excel spreadsheets during fundraising campaigns and no one seems to care how long I haven’t been smiling. Breathe. Count to three. Allow the inner critic to wash away. I need more inner goddess, that’s for sure. Do you get that from kombucha? Taking pictures in a yoga pose? Can you see me now? Calling for help. Breathe. Maybe I’m just jealous of all the love they seem to receive. An internal healing from tailbone to sun salutations. I wish there was a bandaid big enough to cover the wounds I have. The sands of time have only stung like salt ripe on my flesh. “Moving forward” was silly advice. I now exhale my problems onto the next person. Deep, cursed excerpts of my ode to humanity and love and family and relationships and him and… breathe. I guess maybe I am jealous of those smiles stretched across their faces. And maybe… just maybe, I’ll find my own love in my crossed-legged meditation too.
My shadow leads me.
The “past has passed” has passed me now
forcing me undressed.
Stripped of a black, long sleeve turtleneck that
Forever blindfolds my eye.
Arms stuck in Chinese finger trap portals.
She leads me down planks and into rooms of self defining doom.
Whips me around blindly like loss makes us do.
Caught in the newest room.
She whirls me in love potion and lights me on fire. Rebirth of my shadow found on the moon.
From the light of my steps moving forward.
fingers tap every memory like an O.C.D.
set me free
Like shoes in the rain, I retain. drag on…
Memories like tapping on my brain. At some point, it’s just another day.
On the curves
Of her hips
To take me
For the first
I rolled my own
To control my
Urge to drown
In her waters.
Trails of Post-its are pulled from my pockets that scratch out the symbols of yesterday’s eternity.
Written in whispers from nights you promised to cup my overflow of water with both of your hands.
I can still hear the scratching from the first time you wrote one, reminding me of our year. Now, that sound has faded into the crinkling of a Post-it note in my pocket.
Thick as blood
Tied to the vows of the womb we shared
A woman’s bond through
Heartbeat and good intentions
Hailed from a broken ceiling,
Caused by a closed door.
Spread into rivers,
Deltas of the divine
Carry me to your Sirens,
Lead me to my sister’s.
String me in your Fate
Wrap me in Being
Tell me a love story
And wake me when my roots
Have finally touched the sky.
Sticks and stones
Won’t break the brown in our bones
But the words you spit
Might hurt you.
Fertilize the Feminist for the Fourth wave.
She is needed for the brigade.
Arm her with mirror
And tell her to call it Goddess.
Arm her with an audience
And tell her to call them Sisters.
Arm her with a voice
And tell her to call it Ancestor.
The Fourth Wave rises in Her name.
Arms unfolded, fists up in rage.
Steady as you watch her days.
Mother moon plays tricks on the tide,
Tempting one to hide.
She is needed for the brigade.
Unfinished feminism forms in the wake.
She drifts closer a little each time,
But you must show her the prize;
The Fifth is on the rise!
But have you heard her voice?
Angry as the caged bird. And somehow she whistles stardust into my sands of time.
Her voice picks up the sea and smoothes it like fresh sheets in the morning. Full of complexities and cosmos of which I consume. Bewitched. Bothered. But always begging for more.
The purpose of her walk has never been more memorable as when she stumbled in after that Tuesday night. Hair risen on her thighs. Arms lifted in the air to expose her essence through unshaven pits. She growls a purr of exhaustion and I leap to help her limbs. Tumble meaningless words between tongues and wait for the fire to burn out.
Today she gives herself a new name. She breaks the rib of her father and pulls it from her cage. She uses it to carve new letters of independence with rage.
With a roll of her eyes as a punctuation of pride, she laughs a charming tune of the caged bird.
And I watch her like static, anticipating and appreciating the rare glimpse of clarity through all the noise.
The dress fell above her knees almost too perfectly
The only hitch was a thread
dangling as long as the eye could reach
Slowly I pulled as lace came undone
until she was born again in flesh; mentally undressed.