Posted in Feminism, Poems

Letter to my growing womanhood | further acceptance of uncertainty

Dusky moonlight under the joshua tree, if I were to speak to you in half lit, ill-writ memoirs, my voice is husky even to stay still and I am all splinters and chaos but perhaps this is just the wind, for I sit still.  I look closer to the ground, sink in, take a microscope to my swelling heart, eyes well and fumble to grasp all the instances that came for her to beat just so.

Somedays, then, I cry.  I am afraid I do not cultivate my own garden enough, well, or well enough, even the tears help me to expand. So it is the days that I do not cry that are the scariest of all. But then, I bleed.

All scars, all blood. The color of heartbeat, the color of life, the the color of lust, I bleed, I bleed, I bleed, I bled.  I have not bled freely in months, I wonder where the blood went, I wonder if I have bled dry. I miss the blood.

I recollect, collect, know that I know how it feels to vibrate, vibrant, this is the quiet corner, corner myself in mind of my time of meeting you, first time. And I recall the scent of blood. Whetstone curdle cry, sharpen knife for the kill. To nourish the earth all things must die, to nourish the earth all things must live. To each of us our perfect time. Jack rabbit, jack nimble, jack quick, quick then, quicken, pause and I’ll light the candlestick and I’ll kiss wet lips and I’ll cradle me, cradle thee, cradle me, crack.

I, lost in thoughts, I lost then, but better to lose the thoughts to pass time than to lose a whole mind as pastime. Again to each of us in the perfect time. Always struggling to keep time, or release.  And I’m trying, or gambling–a gander, a goose, geese, a guess, and who will please me but I. Fly south with me, I am tired of being alone. Don’t follow me, I’d like best to on my own. Two feet, the moon waits closely to become the brightest circle in the sky. Call my blood, and she does.  Call my blood, it remains within my skin. Life, my blood, she is.

And I wait. Even in the waiting I calm myself to the garden. Breath becomes breathe becomes ease.

Here I grow again, here I grow. Here.

2.6.17

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