Poetry
When she was little, she heard her parents talking about grown-up things. She wanted to be just like them, so she talked about grown-up things too. But she still felt small.
When she went off to college, she heard her professors talking about important things. She wanted to be just like them, so she talked about important things too. But she still felt insignificant.
When she began her career, she heard her colleagues talking about serious things. She wanted to be just like them, so she talked about serious things too. But she still felt silly.
Then one day, when she was far too tired to muster even a single drop of energy to talk about grown-up, important, or serious things, she dropped all resistance and just... gave... up.
It was then that the voice inside her began talking about all sorts of things.
Wanting to honor that voice, she slowly found the courage to talk about all sorts of things too.
And as the years of lies fell away, she felt for the first time the immensity of all that she is.
One Day
Breath
She lived
on the thin wisps of oxygen
her children
exhaled
so muddled with CO2
she almost suffocated
daily
willingly
wholeheartedly
without hesitation
or pause
hanging on for
dear lives
When in time
they stopped
breathing
in her direction
her heart seized
in panic
gasping for nourishment
her lungs screaming
for breath
her blood
for warmth
her being
for life
She faded
into nothing
into air
itself
She drifted
for days
among the plants in her garden
lily and larkspur bowing
all whispering
Here we are
She blew
for weeks
along the beach
sea spray and tide dancing
humming their serene song
Here we are
She lilted
for months
amid the golden breeze, the shining grass
both glistening while
whistling tenderly
Here we are
Until
She floated
with grace and poise
to her children
who gradually and earnestly breathed her in
as she gently exhaled
Here I am.
Locked
The medicine cabinet
sits empty,
all meds
(safely?)
locked away.
The knife block
sits empty,
all “sharps”
(safely?)
locked away.
The dresser drawer
sits empty,
all belts and straps
(safely?)
locked away.
The bedroom
sits empty,
my child
(safely?)
locked away.
For a time.
But ultimately,
they are free to choose.
So I
sit empty,
all of my insides
(safely?)
locked away.
Cloaked
I am cloaked.
Hidden, concealed.
Safe, I think, yet
noting that the hood obscures my sight, I lose my way.
I am cloaked.
Burdened, heavy.
Tangled in its layers,
my body twists and yields to its weight, like burly branches bent by April snow.
I am cloaked.
Duplicitous and sly.
Like Riding Hood’s companion,
a chameleon who shifts from shade to shade.
I am cloaked.
Weathered, worn,
yet wrapped in dancing sunlight,
a blazing fire melding sorrow, gold.
I am cloaked.
Radiant, alive.
Swathed in all that’s true...
Beauty, Love.
Magic.