I shift my weight from one foot to the other In my body, I follow worry through the world like a raindrop pursues gravity There are a thousand ways to purge the soul, but I’ve never learned their names
I imagine lighting candles made of skulls and releasing ten cries of feminine, feral power I wake up still a lonely bird I am no wolf I am no wild nomad I am a trail of water waiting to meet the land
On a sign along a freeway, beside a psalm of Luke 2:38, is scribbled in purple ink this precious declaration: I will not force the wound to howl I think of the moon and the work we do to carry pain I think of the prayerful silence of a puddle and the songs we sing about water
I imagine I can open my belly like a skylight Lay it flat against the soil until the soil becomes skin I place my wound beside an anthill and listen to its quietness There are a thousand ways to come back home I only know this one
