Halo of dust, robes         
Plain as a puddle, your bruised
Palm stretched toward me

I catch myself again,
Picking the writers knot on my finger—
A habit, a fear, a quiet shame,
A flaw. Perfect as is.

I stop myself again,
My skin traced in ghost-white lines,
Be kind to the body healing, a body marked.
I hate them. I thank them. I hate them again.

I forgot that…that thing!
Yet I remember too much of what doesn’t serve me.
I care too much—
There is nothing wrong with you, your quirks, or your image.
I am fine as is.

I have never learned to hide my feelings.
I cannot fake belief. Or pretend to be.
I am horrible at math.
I have chased perfection until I have bled.

My mind does not rest.
Just please…
Not at night, not in silence, not even now.
Let me think!

And yet—

When I stand before the mirror,
When I meet my own eyes,
Dark and deep as earth,
When I count each imperfection like a tally in a game—

I tell myself a lie.
Or maybe it is the only truth I know.
Yes, you. The reflection is real.
I am perfect as is.

I wanted to fly.
Then I remembered
I am scared of heights.

Why did I cut off my wings
before even trying
to leave the nest?

Maybe
I am just scared
of falling.

“Get over them.”
It was 2 years ago.
it was a year ago.
it was 7 years ago.
It was last month
it was 10 years ago.
It was yesterday.

but they always find me.

they’re hands cant find mine,
but they can find my wrist.
my hips,
my thighs, 
my throat,
my chest,
my pants.

I still cant wear that fucking skirt. 
My favorite skirt.
it sits in my drawer
wanted,
but hated.

The words that have fallen from their mouth.
“faggot”
“slut”
“bitch”
follow me around like a demon pretend to be my guardian angel.

The actions that they can’t undo.
The places they’ve smacked,
my body they’ve thrown.

All for being me.
All for trying to show kindness.

I deserve sunshine.

I packed a bag with snacks and things to do
Marianne’s new book.
Colored pencils.
Coloring books.
Pens and paper.

The final hours have begun.
A bedside vigil,
Her son and her sister.

A small moth has gotten in.
It flitters around the room
And lights on the window.

It, too, is looking for release.

I was visiting mom

In her upstairs apartment

Above the first pizza place in this village

She said

If you can and want to

Come stay with me for awhile

This summer

Live here

I would love that

We haven’t been together

For more than a couple weeks a year

Since 1980

So, my boy, think about it, please.

I was waist-deep in university and girl thoughts  and willful abandon…

I took her plea seriously,

But I didn’t take her up on the offer.

I will regret this forever.

She was hardened by her own experiences

Yet she broke though her own defenses

To tell her first-born:

Please come back to me

We didn’t have enough time together, then

Come back, my boy.

And now

The time is long gone.

The pie is cold.

As a young child being picked up
from school, she says to the
grandmother driver,
how was your day?
or on another day,
how do you feel about cursive?

On being asked if she’s afraid
of leaving home to move
across the world, she says
not today.

She’s made of different stuff 
than me–chooses the youngest
child to be on her team
for a family competition–
knows it’s not about winning.

Joy just beneath the surface
ready to erupt
spontaneity bubbling
mouth wide
head back
abandon.

I
can’t
speak the
language or
read between its lines
but the important equation
still shows that you and I are meant to be two halves, whole.
My soul is yours. I’ll tell the world in every sign and sound available. Just teach me.

Long before Horace, women wrote
in self-reflection on their arts.
Let’s take Enheduanna, 2300 BCE,
she etched in clay mí-dug₄-ga—

splendid utterances— in her hymns,
her poetry, of the birth of a poem
like the birth of a child:
Painful. Long. Ending in bliss.

Oh— and our Enheduanna
ripped from her body the very first “I,”
the “I” of ourselves known
through our very own poems.

And then, of course, as women do
after a long day of work,
she brought home crescent-shaped moon cakes—
and fried it all up in a pan.

A river can nourish
an entire landscape
without selecting
a favorite tree.

Perhaps I spent years
standing beside
a reservoir
waiting for permission
to drink.

Believing abundance
required a witness.

Believing devotion
required exclusivity.

Now I suspect
the heart functions
more like a muscle
than a lock.

The more it is used,
the more capable
it becomes.

Which does not eliminate
loneliness.

Or longing.

Or the desire.

To find someone
whose laugh
lands in my core.

It simply means
I have stopped postponing
my affection.

Stopped treating love
like a resource
that must be carefully saved
for the correct person.

The world remains
full of people
in need of kindness.

Animals.

Trees.

Friends.

Neighbors.

Entire galaxies
of consciousness
moving through their brief
and bewildering existence.

I have decided
to love them all.