I have never
borne a child.

But there is
a part of me
that craves
the catharsis
of seeing something
so delicate
and pure
and so much
a part of myself
come from within,
from a place
of love.

Some days
I wonder
how I could have
ever been trusted
to bring up
something so good
(in humility)
with so much beauty
(in modesty)

every moment
it begs
for truth--
how could I not
give this little one
my name?

Other days
the roles are reversed
and suddenly it is
my fears that
are comforted
my tears that
are dried
my passion,
confusion,
or other outburst
borne with grace
on the page--
in these moments
the begetter
is held together.

No,
my children are not
flesh and bone
but rather
heart and soul

and my job
is to prepare them
to go out
and change
the world.

And just like that--
like a cold snap
crashing through
a summer's eve--

I am above
temptation.

As those words
cross my mind
I realize
this stable footing
I've pridefully conjured
proves to be no more
than a tightrope
tauntly strung
over that very same chasm
I've stumbled into
far too often.

Step
by step
is the only way.

Although I know
the stakes are high
I can't help
but look up
and smile.

Praise and blessings
that I
do not have
to walk alone.

Maybe this
is the look
of fading intimacy--

As we continue
to light candles
gold flickers on
dimly-lit tableware
Bread (the same as always)
still needed
still sacred

Still.

Time is where
the ties that bind
are woven
over and under
a basket
meant to carry
budding life
through denial

--Intimacy faded,
but not away:
rather, blazing affection
morphed into subtlety,
into routine
like breathing:
as you think,
you struggle,
so best to let the body
do the work
it was made for.

To be this close
is to recognize only your body
your breath
your words
for any Other
is close enough
to be completely entwined,
enraptured,
captivated.
To separate
is to die
and this partnership
is life itself.

When passion cools
may strength be seen
in what is not heard.

your parents
have wounds
they kept hidden
while pushing you
on the swing

now you’re seventeen
squeezing your eyes
shut and daydreaming
about all the ways
you will be better

you can create an ocean
between
once you’ve collected
enough freedom
to dig the pit
(it is reminiscent
of the one in your stomach)

the bridges
are yours to build
you don’t have to be
an island
but you don’t have to be
a punching bag

their wounds are
not an excuse
they do not get
to point to theirs
while brandishing
***** fingernails to
draw blood

but while their teeth
are sharp and their
eyes are dark
their broken skin shows
there’s still a beating
heart
in there
somewhere

maybe when i’m older
i’ll be brave enough
to reach out
and try
to feel it beat

i shouldn’t expect
to stand still
while the untethered
and unbothered
wind demonstrates
the power of the universe
as it sends the rain sideways
twisting dead and
soon to be dead leaves
in its playful vortices

because my roots
are brand new
my limbs are still
thin and delicate like
soft green saplings

for awhile
i will bend
and shake
and fear
the thunder
until i dig down
far enough
in the dirt

the bending
and the shaking
is part of
the beauty

if stay here long enough
if i let the storm soak into me
instead of letting myself
run for cover
i will become
strong and steady
like an old oak tree

i will wear my growth rings
like gold metals
proudly parading
the proof of
what i have weathered
—there will be
too many to count

and i will find myself
smiling at the sky
when the dark clouds roll in
because i am
still here
still standing
after all this time.

i don’t think my mother
ever brushed my hair.
and if she did,
i can’t remember it.
i could lie and say
that i wonder why,
but i know why.
it was because
she was busy with
my sister’s brand-new curls,
busy tending to her own
dark roots and dry ends.

when i am a mother,
i will balance my sons
and daughters on my lap
and one by one
comb through
their soft mops
with patient hands.

they will never wonder
why i left them
to sort out
the knots
on their own.

they will know
i am there
to help untangle
the predestined messes
caused by the wind,
and caused by me.

I cling
to my vice
because it is
the only constant
in a world
that seems to move on
without me.

To stand still
is to fall back.

Back into that hole
I've been living in.
Not stuck,
for I have always
been capable
of calling for help.

But I have been called higher,
deeper,
cleaner.

My new constant
should be the knowledge
of my struggle.
I am free to refuse,
to stay still,
but at what cost?

My sanctity
will cost me
everything.

I am not
the version of myself
that will be called
holy
heroic
courageous
I am called to conversion
day, after day,
after day.

Teach me to wade.
I can't swim,
so guide me in
to my ankles
my knees
my waist

Prepare my lungs
to be submerged
for I can't stand
on dry land
much longer.

My purity
lies past the horizon
and, little by little,
I will make my way.