Let me learn you.
let me flip through your pages in the mid-afternoon
allow me to read between the lines but trust the context of which I see.
Let me smell your spine to bring back memories.
Bend your pages and earmark my favorite passages.
Chapter by chapter
let me learn you.
There are days my tongue claws at my teeth. I swallow the sounds instead and they poison me. Tie my thoughts in my throat until I can’t breathe. I gag myself with a pencil. Tamper my tabula rasa until you thread her spine. All in uncertainty of saying hello.
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.
She moves for the closest cup, fill her glass and raises it to the light. Dusty clouds of alkaline. Bubbles settle like fresh snow on cement. Swirl the glass; physics follows water into whirlpools and she watches water dance in her handmade cocoon. Death be to bubbles, birth be to monoons. She controls the earth, the time, and the rules.
We seperate with goosebumps –
Like pulling apart Velcro
Our skins cry out, alarmed to be defying
Days like these
We worship it,
Not for its perfection,
But for all the moments we wish we could have taken back.
For all the words we should have inhaled instead of spewed.
Days like these
We sit on our thrones alone
Because power comes at a mighty lonely price.
We practice our goodness but never quite get to genuine.
It’s days like these that remind us where we are.
Who has come before us
And how we will pave the way for the others.
Days that are long,
But worth every hustling minute.
We will remember the glory of these days
Not for its perfection
But for its purity.
Build a legacy.
For the women who created this body deserve recognition
The women who rendered this mind deserve rights.
They created art. They created a dream.
Roots thick as blood
Tied to the vows of the womb we shared
A woman’s bond coiled in cold intentions.
Suffocate a moon-time flow of a new direction.
Heartbeat in the background Tells us of the time we do not have.
Regressed by a memory.
Drowned by a dream.
Is my psyche playing tricks on me?
Blood and memory –
The foundation of the altercation.
You. My legacy’s contention.