When my heart swells, opens, it spills. It spills, my heart, a cup of brine, a morning miso soup. Good mourning, autumn. My napkin ring in the shape of a wooden whale.
Can water be thirsty? Extended dry sheafs of skin out, downward grounding the bones, the burrowed sought surface for dousing: cold stream of river poured onto my crown from 5-gallon buckets.
I was so thirsty. I needed the love like a sponge and under I bloomed. Sweet drops, we had hydration stations we called Love Circles. Blew up the waterboards–reversed the grooves layed into our early plastic minds.
Can water be thirsty. Can the sun seek for warmth. Can the moon draw its breath all in, along with the light, crinkle in on itself, refusing to reflect, refusing to mirror.
I miss the quiet.
There was a woods of Scotch Pine, a triple-spiral labyrinth, clay mugs of tea. Bare feet, everywhere. Elastic garments.
Back in the city now, my heart thirsts for heart.
The river wasn’t thirsty until yesterday. When she sat squirming on a vinyl bench, in tight jeans, with the commotion of machines all around. Keys jangling in pockets, rattling around fingerbones. Evidence the absent things, all locked up.
And I’m okay with heartbreak, with the breaking-open. I am salt, all salt and water. I am all shades of pink, tender. I am multi. I see the holograms of things. The armor has shown itself, its locus on my cervix, masquerading as “abnormal” cells. What if it’s completely normal to my being-body to manifest these cells, this site of healing, transformation. My body-being is moving through its processes perfectly–nothing is static. I am exchanging atoms with all of you, right now. My cervix is healing, lush, and lovely.
I am dropping the armor.
Autumn is coming and I will cradle all the onions in my arms, little flecks of brown dirt earth, papery skins, all the eye-burners. I am full and curled like a cat. I am ready for more pain. Joy. To embrace and be this:
It is slipping away, the earth one. Sitting with Death at the table, meal after meal.