Later, you will admire the tree you came from – its artistic notches, the flourish
of branch and bark, the sweet density of leaf and blanket of shade, how the view
often tilted in your favor – skyward – where clouds drifted into whatever shapes
you wanted them to be. You will tell stories of your past in the way of myth,
each vignette pearlescent as dew. You will pluck good fruit from the old stems,
and the skin will still be soft and yielding. For now, though, offer your betrothal
to this strange, quaking new body. Admire the heated voltage of your fear, your blood
circling the drain. Remember you are merely at the outskirts of your own ballast,
that the swaying will go on for awhile, and then it won’t, and then it will again.
This is and isn’t the beginning. This is and isn’t the end.
Posted by kind permission of the poet.
I grew up in a family that did not tell the story. I am listening…
a body is always a body individual or collective (whole or in many pieces) alive…
Let plain things please you again and every ordinary Monday. Bean soup in a white…
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