dear slouching and poor posture and the incredible shrinking mess that is “Not Enough,”
I am washing my hands of you. I am amending. I am mending.
You kept me safe you kept me small you broke my falls always.
Until the waters that lay spilled across the greasy linoleum of my trailor park shame began to conspire and gurgle. Until the waters of my bottomless well began to surge and rise, to stand impossibly, giving the finger to gravity, reuniting miraculously in a whirlpool of twists and turns and endless movement. A force of creation. A force to be reckoned with. Underearning, your floodgates can hold me no more.
The gaping cavities of “too-poor-for-dentistry” are being filled with poetry and prophecy and hands stretched like scaffolding under my featherweight form. I am of the Earth now. My clinging to air currents is seeking its balance. Skipping feels better than flying these days: Earth/Air/Heel/Kick/Earth/Air/Leap/Land.