i watch you counting yourself out                                         
                    courting little pets of body-parts
putting pennies on the trinket shelf            
talking with wending wordage            
                 about those gruff fellows
who've been pig-holing    about your dwelling

that day  you manage a back window  
                                           and escape                            
masquerade yourself  as a gentleman
but they sniff at your aromas       
              these men in crude season
they circle you hinge-hipping
as you fleet the roads and fields                        
and evade  into the dappling woods
"come on out  we have you surrounded"                              
(you say  they say)
you stay  crossed legged   a monk among trees
(these pleasing defenders)                                

you take off your dress  and string it
            from one of these trees
you dole yourself out                        
little pets for the undergrowth

           you offer a curled shrew
from the space   your kneecap once
                          occupied

you droop your warm left breast
and drop a beast from that cove
(a plump vole clambers  fresh and
                        disorientated)

you plug one arm into loose soil
                   and the fingers snake root
separation at the elbow                
              and branches sprig out

both your thighs   animate as fox cubs
your ***** leaves from between                  
                         and slinks under some ivy

your hair fiddles loose and travels off
in currents of breeze
before flitting into little finches

your back crumples with fungal looseness
your head weighs low                              
             and the jaw lumps off
shuffling   undecided on its form

your forehead bows  to kiss the earth
and your face scatters  a gaiety of insects  and spores

                  all arts patterned about
your pile continues   in this mattering manner
collapsing efficiently    
you've canonized in nature                    
now you’re abroad  mature and freed          
to tell your friend this story
a spirit  without brag of these neat powers
one with mother glory

There are moments
when words become more than sound,
more than air shaped by thought.

They become a call to arms
for the weary soul,
a rising drumbeat
in the chest of humankind.

In the mouth of a true orator,
words rise like music,
then fall like thunder
moving hearts,
igniting wills,
reshaping destiny itself.

Spoken with the precision of art
and the fire of belief,
a single sentence
can lift the broken,
summon the silent,
and awaken a city from sleep.

No weapon forged by man
has ever rivaled
the right words,
fueled by conviction,
spoken at the right time.

Is there anything more gorgeous than a human being rising, greeting their own soul again after the distance nearly tore them apart?  

-Rhia Clay

Fire

There is a fire inside my soul,  
with flames dancing beneath my skin, casting shadows against my cheeks.  
I feel my spirit rise after enduring so much.  
I sense the fire lingering, along with the sun and the life springing forth from my lungs.  
And you, God, you draw me into your depths, reminding me of who I am,  
and that I am not finished yet.  
This world has tried to bury me with its furious fists and powerful hands,  
and yet, here I stand.

-Rhia Clay