I want my life to be light,
airy.
I’ve been sold a story
of perpetual ease,

like the hardest hardship
I’ll ever face
is a flex of muscles
in the gym mirror,
sheen of chosen sweat
on an unlined brow.

I want this to be light
and airy
and clearly mapped,

but every line I’ve ever followed
has yielded squiggles, disappointment,
heartbreak sharp enough
to shred the page.

So all I have
is the compass of this body,

and it must be broken, too—
it points me always
into the wound,
into the wind,
into the squall,

which is not what I meant
by airy and light,

though I know
and unknow
and know again

that seeds tremble, too
before they give themselves
into the breeze.
              They fly for a moment,
then wait for days
or weeks
or years
to break open in dark ground,
carve a          shattered   line
                    toward a scorching sun.