every so often
on early-morning walks
before the sun opens the day . . .
There are too many bodies
in the butterfly garden at the zoo
Humans outnumber the blooms
consume awe like nectar
Bridges always lead to something
more. Looking over the rail high
above the water scares me, so I do it
until fear and reticence turn to thrill.
“Words beat against my teeth. I cannot speak. Ache rises from my gut and forms a lump in my throat; I am wordless with need. I feel small, weak, not enough to face the rising tide . . .”
“a plastic wind bonnet secures her hair
she wears lightweight gloves
and a long trench coat
that flutters against scrunched pantyhose
her husband walks slowly behind her
one mottled hand carefully shadowing her left elbow”
I shed layers, peel the tough
and the tender, all through the bulb
that makes up the meat of me
. . . I should borrow a drill to bore
into this ice. Is it thick enough
to skate?
Grinning, my husband pushes
our four-year-old into the middle of the pond.
“You won’t learn skating by sitting on the bank.”
This is just a start. Maybe that’s the whole point. Another day, even a month from now—my list might look totally different. We keep saving ourselves, over and over. Choice by choice. Moment by moment.
I’m teaching in Tiare Smith’s Gratitude Junk Journal 2021! Enter to win a seat.
I scrawl tender truths in my waiting art journal. Heart pounds in throat, thick with yearning. I smear luscious color in oil pastel, jagged strokes speaking emotions with no name.