My body is not the same as it was.
A most obvious statement with an
All too familiar accompanied disappointment in the truth of it.
It rings in my ear like a persistent alarm,
You. Look. Different.

It’s been a year since I had an infant pulled out of me from a tear in my belly, they pried me open then sewed me closed,
I’ve never shaken so much in my life
as when I was bringing it forth.
I look different now.

I reached out to touch her face but my quaking limbs scared me, I didn’t want her first touch to be by accident, I
looked upon her instead, and then I fed her.
I was so pale, she so red, like she took all of my
blood with her on the way out,
A weight lifted from me,
but not the one I wanted.

I have weight, still.
But I’m not carrying anyone inside me anymore,
besides the demon that stayed in her stead
and sprinkled dread and convulsion into
My abdomen. I see my belly, and I’m repulsed.

But remember, a gentle voice reminds me,
Do you remember what you have done?
From sunlight and water and time in the world
I have created a little girl.
And that creation still lies within me
even though she is without,
I am round with fertile ground,
I’m not fat, I’m full.
This mound on me is sacred and now used to hold life as she grows.

I look different now.
My body is not the same as it was.
It’s become tree and canopy to raise
And shade a life bigger than me. When
I birthed her, I became as old as the earth itself.
And the world is not excessive, but abundant, and
Isn’t that a most wonderful thing?

I brim and sing with possibility.
I overflow and flower.
I look different now.
My body is not the same as it was.

poetry is bloodletting
for my aching hands,
brain, heart, soul, whatever.
in maroon, I see a *****,
disconnected features, details,
themes, emotion.
all useless without the right vessel.
the pages may get stained
but the Rorschach means nothing
without rhythm and image and heat
and light.

I didn't realize that I had missed the rabbits so
til I nearly stumbled over one in the dark and dew

impossibly still and also bounding with movement, vibrating
a tenacious anxiety reflected back to me in more than one
lost, drunken, exasperated moment
memories inevitably left in backseats and waterlogged journals
the thorny irony of holding fervently what this life means to me
and for me
knowing I've forgotten nearly most of it
to trauma
and to time

why would I tuck away the times I've made myself the image of my parents?
why cherish and return to the slur of dysfunction and imbalance
why build myself on the moments I broke upon

each falter is palmed inside me
slick and pressed with dust
the life of every love and bond
I can't release
for fear that I will sink into the sky
for fear that I've only ever been a reflection
is it empathy? maybe it's a pervasive fear of abandonment
as you cannot leave me if you need me
as you cannot fear me if you trust me
as you cannot without me
and I, you

We are stardust in a unified field
There is no you and me
Even so, I love you

I practice loving myself daily
Though they make it hard
Love, and life itself having been commodified

Transformation is my self-love
Rebirth - it’s Spring!
My least favorite season
Songs of wishes raging

From Love comes constriction and
Pain that leaves no path backwards
Thrusting into the open
New again in the calm radiant silence

if I were a god, I’d—

be solved, frame finished, insides intact
like those of an engine running smoothly, carry
this heart as heaven, with legions of love
imbuing beloveds at the flutter
of my belly butter-

flies; these
dreams as dynasties,
ever-flourishing; these creatures titled
thoughts, staying steadfast and faithful
to the tenets of my temple,
unfolding their fortunes

—be all that I am suited for

but I am stifled spells locked within flesh,
rickety humanity,
an ocean tucked into a jar—roaring
and rising, with no moon to
chase, no clouds
to visit;

and so with sharpened dreams,
with the longing for an escape, I cut strings
from my vessel,
but end up with a severed self
and a reality in ruins

and so with a turgid heart,
with a heart that keeps swelling and
searching and spreading
into too many chests, I shatter
in seasons.

oh, but even a god would be jealous
of how I keep splitting
and bleeding with so much love
left to live for, with so many dreams
destined to die for—

much more godly it
is to triumph like a god
in human body.

as autumn plants her feet,
cities burst into smoke, shades
and silence, until I can only sit
& grieve as a ruby-dream fades

into the mist; tell me this is earth
breaking feasts to mark the birth
of our bond, tell me this remains
the season where hearts rain

like leaves as they, as we, fall
in love beneath golden trees
& we'll only need to loosen our all
to cling tighter than we please;

tell me that when the perils flee,
you'll return, arms open-- tell me.

the ninth shade
embraces mountain peaks
in the pure clarity of morning

frost clings to sagebrush
in the ascending sunlight
of the third-quarter moon

and as life pauses
to apprehend the spectacle
of a wintry summer morning

my bones feel
the transition of season
as autumn draws near

this essence has been boiled down to the nearest nothing
and deep down, it feels familiar—

a bird too grown to only now learn to fly,
its wingtips creased the wrong way,
nearly featherless, and weak.
nowhere to go but down
and even then,
impact doesn't promise
resolution.

a poem with too few metaphors,
too much “telling”— we get the point
but SHOW us—
as if listless anger and sadness
it's just a clear-cut visual,
crystalline in memory against all odds.

this essence had been boiled down to the nearest nothing
and deep down, it feels misunderstood.

there’s solace in syllables,
humming as you write them,
their slight vibrations signal warmth.

fondness gives it life
and, in turn, is mountainous
in splendor.

this might be what love is.