Permission
I’ve been wrestling roots
and old-growth demons
first-born
peacemaker
penitent
phobophobic
imposter
What if
I dig my fingers
deep in my own soil
solely for the sensation
of turning handfuls of my humus self
back toward the sun
What might it mean
to tell my story in this season
sub-lithospheric
cave-painting by torchlight
my own song echoing
mitochondrial magma
What if mud in my hair and worn amber beads
are the loftiest adornments
neanderthal soul
meant to wander fault lines
unearthed
free of any name
that came before
7 thoughts on "Permission"
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wow…wow…wow…love the language and the lesson in this poem.
Love the march of the What if’s especially this one: “What if/I dig my fingers/deep in my own soil…”
and
“cave-painting by torchlight/my own song echoing
mineral magma”
and that great landing of this brilliant poem in the last stranza.
oops…stanza not stranza!
Thank you so much Pam!
Courage and awareness to be “wrestling roots/and old-growth demons” during self-discovery, Leah. Despite doubts expressed as “What if” and “What might,” the speaker says, “I’ve been wrestling” with these long-standing sources of their own story. Admirable writing
Thank you so much 💛
So many great lines! “my humus self” and “wrestling roots/and old-growth demons” are two of my favorites
Thank you Shaun!