Handorable Me

I imagine there is a place of deep rest—not in the resting but after,
when the body has forgotten the weight of fatigue or of its many
🕸️
betrayals—how unfair that once I thought it clever to blame my body
for the wounds in me: the ankle bulbous and aching, the heaviness
🕸️
in the thigh, and the fat, the encroachment of flesh. It is hard to believe
that there are those who do not know that it is possible to let things
🕸️
go, to then see the expansion of flesh—it is so easy, and that knowing
is a pathology. What is unknown to me is the clear day of rest—
🕸️
I carry a brain of crushed paper, everything unfolds as if by magic,
every spot of understanding is a miracle, I cannot take any credit
🕸️
for the revelations, they come and go as easily as the wind.

“Before Winter,” Kwame Dawes

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Photo by Cristian Newman on Unsplash

I bet I’ll never appear in a dream or a summer dress
or next door. Displaying on one hand my prowess, the other

my difficultness, I bet there will be just enough pain
to keep me alive, long enough for the moon to be mine,
just as the sea is of women: the cockle, the star,
and the movements of the earth. Just as
the whale, stuck in its baleen grin, climbs up
out of the depths and moves to its hidden
spawning grounds—
👽
I don’t know. What is it to be seen?

“Artichokes” by Bianca Stone

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Photo by Daniel Jensen on Unsplash

I lost so much
of the world’s beauty, as if I were watching
😔
every shining gift
on its branch with one eye. Because
😔
I was hungry. Because I was waiting
😔
to eat, a self
😔
crawling about the
world in search
😔
of small things.

“I give in to an old desire,” by Toi Derricotte

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Photo by Vince Fleming on Unsplash