engender my body with gesture – with the movement to move, the courage to soothe, engesture my body with gender // with the firmament to fulfill a role already rolled out of the dice / wrap me up in the wrapture of my hormones; my genital fever ; my general fear of forgetting the way i am supposed to be presenting // present me : the present prescience of my perennial pubescence (the purpose of all that period blood) // hinder me, little wheel looking for a quixote – for the quixotic narcotic of hormone that makes my body moan ; twist ; contort ; retort and rotate and tolerate | so | much | bullshit — give it to me, girls parts ; tutu hearts – too, too heartfelt; too, too full of heart – you feel too much – you feel too much little girl — be like me little girl, stuff it. be like a man little girl, swallow it whole. devour feelings for lunch. let them fill you up with bone and anger and muscle and cartilage and ledges to lean over (not jumping, just leaning, just trust me — not jumping, just leaning; not learning, just pumping, just thumping – just trust me). let them fill you up – you’ll expand; balloon outwards; topple over yourself with musculature and strain; your chest will puff up – puffin-wide and proud – you’ll look remarkable – you’ll look large – you won’t have to feel it at all – you’ll look large – you won’t have to feel it at all – you won’t have to fear it at all – just fill yourself up with it. keep it safe in your intestinal tract. don’t trust anyone, little girl. all the men you see will have a lifetime of feelings bottled tight in their intestinal tract, don’t you see? stay smart. don’t wear your heart on your sleeve. that’s the smart way to do it – you’ll stay safe. you’ll keep everyone out. you’ll keep everyone out. you’ll keep everyone out.
isn’t that quaint – she isn’t afraid to feel. how adorable.
what a brave little fool.
i’ve got all of the above inside. i am what i am what i am. my own wounds and insecurities placed just above the ribcage. they sing when they are jostled. i try to play dumb, to slice off my cancer. but hey, if this is your heart in your hands, this is mine too. this is my fear, my insecurity, my bundle of complexes. here, here it is, will you hold it in your hands? i am trying to do the things i said i was going to do when i broke up with ceilidh. i told him i needed to come in to myself, to know myself as a single person, as a person unreliant on another. i need to know my own rhythm, to go slowly, to hold space.
let go, let go, let go. keep trying to find your own rhythms. your own life held in your hands. try to hold your own heart. learn how to hold it, how it feels, what it needs. see if you can give it what it needs.
and i think about you girl, my angel. this day, 8 years ago. your life, your light. the prettiest girl in the world. you were joy, and you are love. you give me bravery, when i am scared. i think about you, what you would have done, and then i fucking do it. i leap in to the cold water. you were bravery and beauty and love and all things bright and worth living for. you are always and forever. keep blowing in the wind, dear, keep crashing in the waves. i’ll keep trying to dive in, to be brave and alive and fearless for you.
warm cotton heart, tucked inside my chest – i feed it well, keep it fearless and folded/a turn style/a watering can. the light – a presence; a singing bell of summer starting to chime. the way the dashes and hyphens of the branches keep tapping morse code to me. calling me out, calling me out, get out of your skin. carry your fear to the center of the forest and leave it there. bury it well, in desert ash and worm soil. let it go, let it go. the weight of worry that hums with you on a tuesday afternoon. let it go, let it always go drifting into this bask of light. this swelter of sunlight leaves. this canopy of harmony and hallowed wind. sacred is the day/sacred too – my heart. our little hearts that light the way like fireflies come out to dance in the darkness. our little hearts that light the way.
follow them. let them go. let them be. let them sing. let them swarm into the light. moths we are, little winged ephemerals. little things we are, just bursts of light. little hearts aflame in the dark. lighting the way are we, always lighting the way are we. always fighting the fear are we, always fighting the fear.
and winning, we are.
sing a little, swing a little – singe my heart, will you?
i never want to take these smells for granted – the conifer russet, the mulch iron, the fuzzy grace of the lilac and the wisteria. i never want it to be anything other than a 3pm April 28th – curled catnap cat napping in the corner of the porch (radiant and perched, he swirls his body lithe). i never want to be anything other than a friday afternoon, deep spring (phase 4 and a half of spring to be exact). i want the alwaysbreath of the willow to lie with me on the days that are not this day. i want the alwayssky of the April 28th to be my horizon, wrapping around me with silver cord. tucking me in to my little garden bed. sprinkle a little soil on my head, and send me on my way. grow, grow, little one – the sun’s come out see you. to let you see. to let you be seen. come out, come out, little one – seeds are only one of the many many’s you are. you will be. you can be.
wild-eyed ringlet girl spins in circumstance. hung boat linger-sails sing on the horizon. fiddle-fire jangle tunes keep plowing through this square. and here, the people gathered. and here, the people watched. waiting, waited, for the sun to set on the water. and here the golden light came triple washed and pouring – dousing speaker boxes in wildfire. and here, we’re all coupled in the gold. and here, the sunlight drenches all our delicate bones.
there it is, there it is, there it was. the day, the rhythm, the twilight, the courage of light to keep basking.
here it is, here it is, the day of love washing over me. the warmth of this winter glow – pink, elegant, loveboned.
here i am, riddled with flaws and edges, boundless with cracks and edges. hurricane fire with a temper turned on high. here i am, catching my own breath, remembering to re-evaluate, re-assessing my self-awareness. radiating with a bit of heart, a bit of bitterness, a bit of hope, a bit of pragmatism, a bit of wide-eyed optimism. here i am, ready again for another fall, ready again for another flight. here i am, little window-box of love. here i am, thrusting my heart into the sky, again, again, again.
This is how a heart keeps beating. This is how a life keeps living. This is how the seasons keep changing, shifting, tilting and swerving, sifting and lifting each facade up to the next. The illusion of green, the illusion of yellow and orange, the illusion of white. Which season is the truth? The complex bundle of changing reality- mutable identity, fluid manifestation. The fumbling truth of a world that breathes. Heaves, leaves and comes back. The wild, incomprehensible truth of a world that spins on its own axis. Revitalizes and deconstructs. Erodes and creates. Warms and cools, fades and glistens in its own section of outer space. In its own section of inner space. In its own space of grace and with its own courage to race itself towards the center of a circle. Towards the circumference of a perimeter. Towards the orbit of language. Consciousness. Heart. Faith. Mind. This is the space called ours. This is the planet called home. And it grows and weaves and tumbles and reacts. This planet reacts. Responds. Renews. And will not surrender to our abuse. This planet will respond. This planet will react.
And we, little ones, little ones. Little fields of mind, big swaths of collective consciousness, tiny hands of feeble concepts, warm radiation fresh in our bodies. We will keep hunting. Hunters that we are- we will keep gathering. And if we want to save ourselves, we will let go. We will surrender. We will give in and we will give back. We will get back. To that true heart that used to beat inside of our shallow chests. To those primal cues still laced inside our neurons. We will remember. If we want to survive, we will remember. The truest honesty of the season that says – it’s time to let the dead things go. For everything there is a season. For the harvest we must have slumber. For the green we must have white. For the grace of all our glittering serpentine screens we must have silence too. For the whimsy of our wheels we must have windless waiting too. For the fire of our muskets we must have water of replenishment. We must mend scars. We must complete cycles. We must burn away the dead tissue. We must take only what we need. We must give all that we can. We must tread lightly. Live reverently. Follow peacefully. Search meaningfully. Honor graciously. Fight nobly. Tend lovingly. Discover humbly. Race patiently. Give endlessly. March proudly. Through the uncertain days of time that tick towards us. We must surrender to that deepest wisdom that we know nothing. We must aspire wildly to that endless acquisition to know anything. To learn deeply. To feel profoundly. To trust boldly. And above and below all things – to love fearlessly.
To start at the beginning and wheel backwards. To ground ourselves 9 feet deep and one foot in front of the other.
The whole of the whole inside the hole.