Some Kind Of Poem.
i know of sorrow in torrents.
my heart is bending, learning
how to be with a trickle that may or may not become a stream
weaving between and through
the crocuses and wildflowers.
it picks up some sticks along the way
leaves behind some mud,
smooths rocks,
and sometimes, joined by all the other
tributaries
ends in that warm and wide pool
my young body once slid down a moss slide
and pierced the still surface of,
before languishing on large rocks
baking like pie crust in the gift of the sun.
i was never taught if there is a difference between heartbreak and heartblooming
and if fear is the opposite of love
what did i mash into that sweet potato along with the coconut oil, the spices?
putting my pulse into what i was feeding us.
if we, collective, strong, couldn't stand tears pouring down my face
i'd put the hard things into the meal.
i'd have to.
so we could eat them
together.
digest.
what is not mine.
what is ours.
what is ours?
everything so small
the room
this pot
this family, always sometimes never just like sort of like completely unlike the other families we have known.
and does a person, displaced upon displaced upon displaced
ever feel what family is?
when will i finally know in my cunt,
the place of truth always,
that family is not those who do not hurt you,
but those who cut you deepest
and stay to hand you salve and hum a song
as you dress your own wounds.
i never know how it's supposed to go, this dance.
it's unchoreographed.
what i know is:
the kitchen
and the keyboard
and these strong and wise and compassionate feet
and the power of not hiding the fact of crying
and my love for the migration patterns
of tarantulas
and big, black, biting ants
even if they become entangled in my hair.
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