Imagine the muffled sounds Of a seed weeping Begging the rain to stop At 10cm no mother Wishes death upon her baby But the sound of her tears Are the same It is the bursting in the rainstorm That brings forth new life The seed knows not what is coming And waters herself. Not believing …
I want to teach my children The nature of thingsHow on a blistering cold dayThe sun will be shiningThen rain will pour relentlesslyIn the middle of July You will arrive at the poolFloaties strapped to your armsHobbling aroundSmelling of sunscreen and hopeThe thunder will comeThe lifeguard will blow the whistleQuietly grateful for a day’s rest …
“You need a hobby” he says“Something you like to do”And there’s privilege in that statementIt hits me sitting here on the floorCutting out my hair that’s clogged the vacuum cleanerMy postpartum hair that never stopped falling outIt hits me as I rip the clumps of mefrom it’s roaring mouth To the maddening sound ofThe latest …
Like seasons we drift closerthen split.A cold front blows through middayand I didn’t pack a coat.Turning to face the sun,I realize blood is not thicker than water.for your presence leaves me shivering,amphibian and cold. Of all the rooms we sharedthe womb was my favorite.Our starting line was the same,but where we finish will be miles …
It stands to reasonMother Earth never intended for wildfires in their heat and their rage,to be the main attraction. For it is their ashes,the fertile by-product,that will feed new life. Likewise, then, my heartas it swells upand into my mind,is building new channels,new awakenings,making forestsout of my pain.
Let your lifetime erodeyour superficialityyour weights and measuresyour black and white thinkingyour duality. Let your body return to dust,not of the Earthbut of the starsSo that when you are born again,they will measure your sparkle,forgetting the cold, meaninglesscounter scale in the corner.
Like baby turtles we partSharing origins but not destinations I still look for your traileach time I stroll the beach.Fading zigzags in the sand:reminders that we will never meet again.
We must be cautious of judginganother’s slumberfor we know not of their rhythms,circadian or otherwise.We awake at our own pace,in our own divine timing. Death does not have to be the browbeating boss, chastising us for a minute’s tardiness.Early bird, please remember:no matter when we awakenthe worms we need will be therenourishing out bones without …
Perhaps the worm knowsthe songbird’s decaying boneswill feed her own daughtersfor generations to come. Maybe she willingly sacrifices herselfto its melody:A cadence we all knowbut choose to forget.