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.
I pity the girl who danced to your rhythmsthinking it was she who created the beat. Your dance is unsafe, unsettling. On a new moon I drift away silently,using the dark to my advantage.Farewell you who once knew me,a stranger to me now.By the full moon you’ll be howling,your outbursts mimicking the tides. I twirl …
Grief is not limited to the months After funerals. The psychic corpses that litter my mind outweigh the physical corpses I have held in my hands. These corpses can include — Letting go of the sister I always wanted First years of life stolen by depression No soft hands on my back as a child …
A quick search reveals thatJanet and Condoleezza never marriedand never had children. So I traded their blazers for aprons. This choice, my choice, is conscious.My womb was built for this job:raising healers, creatives, and lovers. Raised by Murphy Brown and Oprah,you told me I have to choose.So I choose them, all three of them. Even my …